


The Shape of the World

by bixgirl1



Series: The Shape of the World [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Complete, Domesticity, Falling In Love, HP: EWE, M/M, Memory Loss, Oblivious Harry, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slash, Switching, butlikeseriouslyoblivious, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco's life is finally getting back in order.  Until, that is, he sees a familiar face that has been missing since that last awful morning of the war.When has knowing Potter done anything other than complicate his life?Although, for two people such as Potter and Malfoy, how can they fall in love except to put aside their preconceived notions about one another?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are owned by JK Rowling and her associated publishers.
> 
> My deepest thanks go to Jenni for the beta.

Venice, California is an odd little cluster of Wizarding and Muggle lifestyles, Draco observes as he walks through a loosely-knotted crowd being delighted by a band of performers levitating one another. Anyone with magic can sense a spell being cast, but magical regulations are slightly more lax in this part of the United States than they are in the rest of the country—or the world, in fact—in deference to the lifestyle and culture that seems to thrive here. People in California seldom seem surprised by what they see in the beach cities, or what they see others doing; they chalk it up to sleight-of-hand mastery or sheer eccentricity, and seem to enjoy coming to this place specifically for such reasons.

A light wind ruffles back Draco’s hair and he absently takes a bite from his melting, garishly-colored ice dessert called a Sno-Cone. Another performer ahead of him swallows and then breathes a streak of fire, eliciting oohs and ahhs from those watching and Draco rolls his eyes a little; his wand core is obviously dragon-heartstring.

It’s not a bad place for a wizarding business, he concedes as he wanders around in the glaring afternoon light, and wishes he were wearing something more appropriate than his best tailored Muggle waistcoat over a silk shirt. In the collection of shops that dot the walking path, there are several that are charmed so that Muggles can’t see them, and they seem just as popular as those populated by the non-magical; he considers popping into the one of them to get more suitable attire.

It had been Blaise that had persuaded him to visit this section of States after checking on his investments in New York. The gold in the vault Draco had inherited two years ago on his twenty-first birthday is now spread far and wide, and thanks to his father’s training, has been yielding positive results from the start. These profits have allowed Draco to secure his mother a finer cell at Azkaban and a few precious luxuries that she’d had to do without for the first three years of her imprisonment, when the Ministry had drained their vaults and seized the Manor for reparations. Fortunately, due to a clause in inheritance law, Draco’s untapped vaults had been safe from the same treatment, and he’s to inherit two more in the next few years.

Blaise has been talking up the idea of a combination Wizarding/Muggle hotel in this area for the last several months, and when he’d heard that Draco would be coming here to inspect Pansy’s fashion business (quickly becoming an empire), he’d asked for a meeting. He has been working as the manager for a Wizarding hotel just outside of Santa Monica for over a year, promoted from the position of concierge, and had begun to wonder what was stopping them from fusing the two lifestyles in an exclusive resort-stay location that would keep Wizards comfortable and set Muggles jaws agape with fascination. Draco has to admit the idea, which had seemed so outlandish when presented to him, might have some merit in this place.

It’s not entirely altruistic of him that many of the places or ideas he invests in are from former Slytherins still suffering the financial and social effects of the War; Slytherins are wily and astute, and will do nearly anything to succeed. Of course, he makes sure to invest in others (Lovegood runs a rare bookshop in Hogsmeade that does surprisingly well) and charities, and it seems like the tides might finally be turning. Last week, for instance, there was an article on page eighteen of the Prophet discussing a donation he’d made to a Wizarding orphanage, and not once did it mention his Death Eater history but for a comment about “the much-changed Malfoy heir.”

He’s contemplating taking off his shoes and rolling up his trousers to put his feet in the sand and perhaps even dip them in the shining blue of the Pacific (and oh, if his father could see him now), when a flash of wild black hair catches his eye as it disappears into a small Muggle shop with a sign that says, “Surfing, USA.”

Curious, he turns and follows it.  It’s dim inside, away from the bright sun and it takes Draco’s eyes a moment to adjust.

There are odd, zippered bathing suits in there on plastic people—mannequins, if he remembers Pansy correctly—and long, slender boards of varying heights. Funny little webbed shoes decorate the place and, of course, there’s the telltale California memorabilia that seems to populate every store he’s been to: chains with _Hollywood_ or _Venice, CA!_ or palm trees etched on them, and t-shirts and postcards with similar logos.  A voice calls from the bowels of the store, “Hang on, coming!” and Draco’s heart thumps wildly at the familiar strangeness of it.

And then Harry _fucking_ Potter emerges, winding through the displays, to greet him with a friendly smile.  “Hi. How can I help you?” 

Draco suddenly can’t breathe; his mouth goes dry, and he stares with wide eyes. 

Potter’s welcoming expression slowly melts into concern.

“Hey, are you all right?” He takes ahold of Draco’s arm and leads him to a chair behind the counter, eyeing his suit. “The heat, maybe? It’s pretty warm out there today for a getup like that.”

And it’s Potter, but not Potter. He’s older, obviously; he’s lost that half-starved look he had the last time anyone had seen him, in the Battle at Hogwarts. His hair is shorter, too, on the sides and in the back, but as dark and wild as ever on top, flopping over his forehead attractively. He’s tan and muscular, wider in the shoulders, but his muscles are unobtrusively defined under his red tank-top and shorts. And his eyes are so, so green.

“What are you doing here?” Draco manages, and Potter’s eyes widen behind his glasses—different frames, thin and silver—before he takes a step back.

“I, um, work here,” he says cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

And that’s how his voice is strange, Draco realizes: the other man doesn’t have a British accent. Some of his shock fades and with it comes the realization that, across the world, there is a Potter doppelganger, and that’s all this man is. Not British. Not a wizard. Not the hero everyone has been searching for, for years. Just a man in a beach shop.

“I, I, saw you, outside, and…” Draco waves his hand, his sentence trailing as he realizes how strange that sounds.  But Potter-not-Potter gives Draco a smile, lopsided and charming, a smile that Draco knows like the grip of his own wand—not that it’s ever been directed at him, of course.

“Yeah?” His eyes travel down the length of Draco’s body speculatively before raising again to his face.

Draco feels a flush begin to climb on his neck. “I mean, I saw your shop, and I wondered what—what surfing is,” he says.

The smile doesn’t drop from Potter-not-Potter’s face; he laughs a little. “You’ve never heard of surfing?”

Stumped for an excuse, Draco can only shake his head and mumble, “England, you know…”

Potter-not-Potter shrugs. “It’s an ocean sport. All about balance and connecting with the water. When you do it right, it’s like flying.”

At this, Draco’s pulse speeds up again. He takes another glance at Potter-not-Potter’s forehead, which is still obscured by his hair. “And you run this shop?”

“Yeah. For the last year, now.” His smile dims, just for a moment, before resuming. “Interested in lessons?”

“Oh, no. Just, ah, curious. I’m not much for flying,” he says, lying through his teeth.

Potter-not-Potter looks disappointed for a second, and then perks up. “What are you interested in?”

Draco stands uncomfortably. If he’s not mistaken, Potter-not-Potter is _flirting_ with him, and his mind flashes to the various lovers he’s taken over the years, all of them with dark, messy hair and bright eyes, and all of whom pale before the man before him. It feels like the perfect opportunity to do some flirting back and kill time before his International Portkey in two days, and he thinks it even might be easy. A dinner, a dance, drinks back in his hotel room followed by a fabulous shag or maybe several. But the incredibly similarities of the man’s features, rather than drawing him in, are making him feel off-kilter and flustered.

Potter-not-Potter is still watching him, waiting for his answer, and Draco clears his throat, trying for a smile. “Travel. Business,” he says, voice light. “Possibly you.”

Potter-not-Potter’s smile widens. “Good answer. What’s your name?”

“Malfoy,” Draco says automatically, and then remembers who he’s talking to—or rather, who he’s not. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Like Bond, James Bond?” Potter returns with a chuckle.

Draco doesn’t know who Bond-James-Bond is, but he shrugs and nods as though it’s true. “Exactly.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Exhilarating,” Draco corrects. He’ll have to find out about Bond-James-Bond later. But his correction seems to have amused the other man, who grins and runs a hand through his hair. Draco’s eyes land on his forehead, which is tan and clear of scars. He feels a sense of disappointment as possibility begins to fade away.

But still, there’s a man in front of him, attractive and strong, and he has the chance to play out a fantasy that he hadn’t realized until two minutes ago that he’d been searching for, for years, and so he holds out his hand. “What’s your name?”

“James Black,” he says, taking Draco’s hand easily and giving it a squeeze.

Draco’s eyebrows knit together at the name, surely a coincidence, but the flagging hope he’d felt a moment ago rises; a small and tight kernel in his chest. “Would you like to have dinner with me, James?”

Dark eyebrows rise and James takes another appraising look at his body. Draco knows that his clothes, shoes, and demeanor are completely out of place and that he’s probably wholly different than what James is used to, but if his answering smile is anything to judge by, he seems to like what he sees.

“I’d love to.”

***

Draco knocks lightly at the bleached wooden door and waits nervously.

He’s a little late; he’d had to acquire some more casual Muggle clothes (a pair of jeans and what the Muggle sales-person had assured him was a “nice” t-shirt, although Draco isn’t sure how one differentiates t-shirts from nice and not nice except that it seems to be made of good material) and Floo Blaise to cancel their dinner meeting and ask about that Bond fellow. (He’s a little flattered at James’s words, now that he knows.)

He’d paid for two nights in an extra hotel room, as well, completely Muggle and on the beach not far from the address James had given him. Just in case.

After a minute, James answers, face beautiful and bright, and Draco’s heart clenches just a bit; he’d started to wonder if he’d imagined how much they look alike.

“I was starting to think you might not come.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. “I had some business that ran long.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re really not that late, and it gave me a chance to shower,” James says, and indeed, his hair is still damp, curling in different directions. James looks at Draco’s outfit and smiles. “I’m glad you’re wearing that. Thought I might have to put on a suit.”

“You don’t seem the suit type,” Draco says, feeling his own twist of arousal as he looks at the other man. James is also wearing a t-shirt, in deep green, and it hugs his shoulders and the flat plain of his stomach enticingly. “You look great.”

James’s ears turn pink, and he holds the door open. “Come on in, lemme just grab my wallet and keys.”

Draco steps inside, glancing around. The apartment is small and sparsely furnished, with an overstuffed couch that seems too big for the area and one of those large television contraptions Muggles seem so fond of. There’s a small kitchen off to his left, and landscape paintings all over the walls—although, Draco notes with a tingle of foresight, not a single photograph.

Finally James returns, flashing that warm smile that makes Draco’s insides shiver, and they leave. Draco has picked a restaurant only a short walk between his hotel and James’s flat, and they make it there quickly, chatting companionably about the weather.

They’re seated in an outdoor, veranda-style section. Small machines radiate heat to keep the area warm and there are tiny hanging lights strung up, wafting in the breeze, giving them the appearance of glowing pixies. James orders the swordfish for himself and Draco gets the same; he’s never had it before.

“So,” James comments as they wait for their food to arrive. His eyes twinkle a bit. “What really brought you into the shop?”

“You,” Draco admits with a little smile. He pauses. “I saw you and you… reminded me of someone I once knew.”

“Old boyfriend?” James guesses, and it makes Draco laugh.

“Schoolmate. We didn’t get on much, actually,” he says tactfully, trying not to wince with memory. “But I’d always found him… Interesting.”

“Ah. Schoolboy crush.”

The waiter brings over the wine, a nice white, he’s assured, and Draco takes a deep swallow of it; it’s crisp and cool against his tongue.

“Maybe,” he acknowledges. “Not that I knew it at the time. We rather hated each other. What about you? Any schoolboy crushes I need to worry about?”

James’s expression flattens, just for a moment. He shrugs. “Probably not. So, do you come to the States often?”

Draco nods. “Often enough. This is my first time in Southern California, though. The heat is…”

James grins. “I know, it can be bad.”

“Actually, I like it. It’s not as oppressive as summers where I live. You can breathe here. Is this where you grew up?” Draco asks, and he knows in the back of his mind that he’s digging, but fortunately for him, first-date questions often follow along the same lines, so.

“I’ve been here a while,” James answers, a bit guardedly. Then he offers, “I met Jeff, the previous owner of the shop, a few years back and he sort of took me under his wing; he taught me how to surf, gave me a job. One of those grizzled, old, life-surfers from those sixties movies, you know? He was pretty great. I had saved enough to come in as a partial partner with him last year when he died, and I found out he’d left the whole thing to me.” There’s sadness in his voice, but affection and pride, too. “Which was just like him to do. He liked to help people.”

“And you needed help?”

“He thought I did,” James says lightly. His fingers drum against the tablecloth in a quick, staccato rhythm. “He was right, I guess. The way we are as teenagers, you know.”

“I do.”

“And yet, you’re, what? You can’t be much older than me, and you’re wearing a vest and a tie on the beach, and your life is filled with travel, Mr. Bond,” James jokes, deftly turning the conversation away from himself. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I turned twenty-three last month. You?”

“About the same,” James says, flashing a quick smile. “Happy belated birthday.”

They’re interrupted by their entrees being delivered. Draco’s overwhelmed by the scents rising from the steam; a citrus smell from the sauce surrounding the fish; the tang of summer vegetables. He glances at James and finds him watching him, green eyes dark, before the other man smiles again and begins cutting into his food. He chews and swallows and Draco is struck, watching the muscles bunch in his jaw and ripple in his throat. He takes his napkin and places it in his lap as James’s tongue darts out to lick a bit of sauce on his lip.

“Is yours not good?” the other man asks, and Draco flushes slightly, but shoots him a grin.

“Probably not as good as you make it look,” he says wryly, and is pleased when James beams at him, open and happy.

They eat for a while, peppering the conversation with observations about the restaurant and the area and what Draco does for a living. Draco feels a certain amount of pride when he calls himself a spoiled, trust-fund brat and James laughs hard enough to choke on his wine. And it’s so hard to _separate_ him from Potter, this green-eyed man who laughs a bright laugh Draco knows from his dreams and smiles crookedly and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the exact same gesture Draco used to use to mock Potter to his friends.

From the depth of his marrow, Draco feels like he knows this man, and yet there are just enough significant differences—not to mention his sexual orientation and complete lack of awareness about who Draco is—to make his doubt hover above their meal like a dark cloud. His questions are always turned, though consistently enough answered that it’s possible James is merely a private person getting to know a man he’s interested in.

When dinner is finished and they’ve left the restaurant, Draco tries to pluck up the courage to invite James to his hotel room. They walk down the street, shoulders brushing, and James tilts a look at him which makes Draco’s groin and belly tighten.

“Come to mine?” James says softly and the phrase, so commonly English, diverts Draco for a moment before he nods.

He steps forward, linking their hands together and draws James in for a kiss. James responds gently, and it’s just as a first kiss should be, not that Draco knows much about relationships, having preferred quick one-offs with Muggles over the past few years rather than trying to convince wizards that he’s no longer a threat, that he’s someone good, with purpose.

But this… _this_. The kiss is soft, sweet, questing. Draco runs his tongue lightly along the seam of James’s lips and they part for him, allowing him entrance, and garnering a gentle moan from his partner. He tastes of wine and lemons. James pulls Draco flush against his body, deepening the kiss, rubbing his tongue against Draco’s before exploring the depths of his mouth. He traces the sensitive skin inside Draco’s bottom lip, then licks hotly into him as Draco grips him tighter around the waist and applies more pressure with his mouth.

At length, Draco pulls out of the kiss, which is rich and dizzying and promises so much more. He’s unsteady and aroused, cock aching for release, and James stares into his eyes as they breathe for a moment.

Just then, a gust of cold wind sweeps past them, and James’s air flutters away from his face and there, on his forehead, his Potter’s trademark scar. Draco stares at it in wordless wonder; it flickers for a few seconds like a dissipating charm before the skin smooths out and it disappears.

Draco jerks out of his arms, and James—Potter’s—hands start to follow him before falling to his sides. His expression is etched with the remains of fading lust, and he stares at Draco in confusion. “Draco?”

“I’m—I’m sorry. I can’t,” Draco says shakily, putting more distance between them. The stars are too bright above, as bright as Potter’s smile, as burning as his kiss, and he feels faint for a moment. He holds up a hand when Potter moves nearer, and attempts a smile. “Too much wine, I think. I should probably get back to my hotel.”

Potter’s face falls, but he nods gamely. “I’d, I’d like to see you again,” he says softly.

“Yes,” Draco says, straightening his clothes, surprised to find everything in order. “Can I call you in the morning?”

Potter’s mouth curves up at the side, though he still looks a little uncertain. “Sure.”

And so Draco turns and leaves, trying not to run in his effort to flee his former enemy, the Savior of the wizarding world who everyone believes to be dead, the man he suddenly, so desperately, wants.

***

After he gets back to his original hotel, Draco knocks back two fingers of Ogden’s Finest in one, long swallow, and sits with his head in his hands for a moment.

The memory of Potter’s fingers, drifting over his jaw before tangling tight in his hair blurs in front of his eyes. His lips still tingle.

He pours himself another and then steps into the Floo with a handful of powder and heads over to Blaise’s flat.

Blaise comes into the room as his wards chime, clutching a towel around his waist, still wet from his shower. “Hey. I guess your date didn’t go well?”

“I need everything you can get me on Potter,” Draco says immediately. “On his disappearance.”

Blaise laughs a little. “Draco…”

“I need it now.”

“I’m dripping all over the middle of my living room!” Blaise objects, eyeing Draco doubtfully. “What’s happened?”

“Can you get it for me?” Draco asks, voice quick and cutting.

“Well, yeah. Of course. We have plenty of old papers from when he first disappeared back at work. We keep newspapers on file for seven years for guests who might need or want them,” Blaise says as a puddle begins to gather at his feet.

“I need them,” Draco says again. He pauses. “I’ll fund your hotel if you can get them to me tonight,” he adds. He was planning to, anyhow, but incentive never hurts.  Blaise doesn’t seem excited, however; he’s looking at Draco as if he’s gone a bit mad, and Draco supposes that’s not far from the truth.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll explain. I will. But get them for me?”

“Yeah. I’ll Floo over to your hotel. Give me an hour. And I heard that promise, by the way; I’m holding you to that.”

Draco gives him his room number and leaves. His room is open and plush, comfortably tailored to suit his needs and yet for nearly an hour he just sits, the ramifications of his new knowledge pounding through is skull. If Potter’s alive—really, truly alive—it could change the whole landscape of society. Right now, witches and wizards revere Potter as though he had never been just a boy who was both loved and hated while growing up; who laughed with his friends and got angry and didn’t ever seem to brush his hair and flew like he belonged in the air and once nearly cut Draco in half with his wand.  His name is used to raise money for the Ministry, to sell products, and to garner followers. 

And then there’s Draco’s _mother_. Oh, sweet Salazar, his mother insisted for _months_ while she awaited her trial that she had helped Potter in the end, had lied to the Dark Lord, himself, about Potter being dead to aid his way back into the castle.

And no one believed her; they had locked her away for hosting the Dark Lord in her home, for being married to one of the most hated Death Eaters. It was only due to Granger’s testimony of his refusal to identify Potter at the Manor and his excessive illness at watching her torture that had spared Draco the same fate. But this… This could potentially free his mother, after all.

Blaise arrives after fifty-four minutes, looking ruffled and agitated. He hands a leather tote over to Draco. “Everything we have. I shrunk them to fit. Newest editions on top. It’s mostly the Prophet, but there are a few French newspapers in there as well.”

“Fine, fine,” Draco says absently, beginning on the task of pulling out the stacks of papers and enlarging them. “Thank you, you can go.”

Blaise stands for a moment, then moves to sit beside Draco with a sigh. “Just tell me what we’re looking for.”

Draco throws him a distracted, grateful smile. “I want to piece together what happened with as little conjecture as possible. Bare bones. Directly after the Battle. His disappearance.”

Blaise gives a long whistle through his teeth. “That’ll take some time.”

“Then help if you must, but do so quietly,” Draco says, his fingers already beginning to feel dry and stained from the ink on the papers as he sorts through them. Blaise nods and they sort through papers quickly for the next few hours, throwing a glow-charm over sections that seem pertinent and the story slowly begins to take form.

He’d read the papers at the time, of course—everyone had—but they’d been saturated with so much speculation that it was difficult to find out what had really happened.

Which was that Potter, after defeating the Dark Lord and spending hours talking to the hordes of people pressing in on him, had gone up to the Headmaster’s office with Weasley and Granger to discuss something with Dumbledore’s portrait. He’d then bid them goodbye and headed toward Gryffindor tower for a nap—plenty of witnesses can attest to his arrival there—and then he’d simply vanished from his room. Spells had been rebounding all over the castle at that point, bleeding out from the stones that had absorbed so much magic and destruction, and it was considered a possibility that the school itself had swallowed Potter.

As the outcry from the public grew louder, so with it grew fear that Voldemort had actually murdered Harry, and that his death had just taken longer to take effect, but nothing so much as a shred of clothing ever turned up to verify Potter being dead; he was just…gone. Investigations intensified; the Ministry took his wand as well as Draco’s for examination, although no one could ever find the Elder Wand that Potter spoke of to Voldemort, that Draco had apparently been the master of for a short time.  The Magical signature in the bed Potter had been sleeping in showed dozens of powerful spikes of energy, in succession, the largest of these only twelve minutes before Weasley had come in to wake him.

And then, nothing.

Simply rumor and innuendo, gossip and worship and fear. His friends refused to give interviews, not that it mattered to the reporters; Draco himself had been forced to take Veritaserum on multiple occasions until they had released him from the suspect’s list. It was, to this day, unknown what had happened to The Boy Who Lived, or where he was.

Except that now, it wasn’t.

Somehow, he’d ended up on the opposite side of the globe, happily selling beach merchandise instead of finishing his Auror training and working his way up the ladder of the Ministry, and Draco wants to know why.

Blaise gets up and pours them a drink. He clinks his glass against Draco’s once, almost ironically, before taking a sip, and Draco can feel himself being examined. He sighs. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Would I do that?” Blaise says innocently.

 _“Blaise._ ”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Fine. The amount of money you’re giving me—“

“Investing in your idea…”

“Fine, the amount I’m getting from your investment in me, is a hell of a lot more than I’d get selling a story to the papers. So, you think you’ve found Potter, do you?” Draco looked up at him, startled. “Yeah, I thought as much. But you’re not sure?”

“I wasn’t,” Draco says slowly. “He speaks like an American, his scar is gone. He works at a shop on the beach. But I thought—they’re identical. Then tonight…”

“Wait, your date was with him?” Blaise interrupts, his mouth opening comically. “I always knew your thing about Potter went deeper than the urge to murder him. Merlin’s tits, Draco, did you shag him?”

“No! I… I kissed him,” Draco corrects. “And then… then his scar appeared. Just for a moment. He doesn’t know who I am, though. More to the point, he doesn’t know who he is.”

Blaise gives another whistle. “So, you’d thought you’d become the new Savior by bringing him home?”

Draco bristles at this. “I thought no such thing. But, my mother…” His voice cracks. Blaise looks contrite.

“Your mother,” he says, nodding.

“Well, all right, we can figure this out. Are you sure it’s him?”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean…” His friend exhales hard, then pierces his dark eyes at Draco. “I have no doubt that you went out with someone who looks just like Potter. And maybe even that you saw his scar. But, all jokes aside, is it possible that you just saw what you wanted to see?”

“I…” Draco falters, thinking of the shadows and his dizzying lust and the taste of the other man’s tongue. “I don’t think so.”

“You should figure it out before you set the world on its side,” Blaise suggests calmly. Draco gets up to get another drink, fully aware that the axis of his world, at least, has already shifted.

***

They meet Potter for lunch at a tiny restaurant—nothing more than a window at which you order food—not too far from his shop.

Draco had called him upon waking, asking to see him for lunch and if it would be all right if he brought a friend with him. Potter’s pause had been long and heavy. “I’m not really… That’s not really what I’m into,” he’d said at last, and Draco had dumbly looked at the telephone as though the machine were at fault for his embarrassment.

“No!” he said, voice choked. “I just… I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that, I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, and I promised him lunch today, but I’d like to see you as well, and… It’s all right if you don’t want to.”

Potter’s voice became cheerful again. “No, that’s great, totally fine.” He gave the name of the restaurant and they set up a time.

Blaise waits with him as Potter approaches, eyes widening fractionally as he notes the similarities, and he gives Draco a tiny nod that he feels relieved by, but of course it’s not enough.

He introduces the two of them and they order; Potter insists that Draco try something called a corndog, which sounds awful, but Blaise’s eyes are a bit wild with laughter at the thought, so Draco takes the suggestion just to one-up Blaise and prove he can eat the disgusting Muggle thing. He gets a side of chips, waits for everyone else to order, and insists on paying, although Potter objects. (Blaise doesn’t.)

They find seats at a nearby luncheon area, filled with benches and tables and begin eating. The corndog thing is weird, but not bad, particularly when dipped in mustard. The chips, however, are divine; hot and greasy and misted with salt.

“So, James,” Blaise says, “Draco here has taken quite a liking to you.”

Potter smirks and casts a glance at Draco. “I may have taken a liking to him, too.”

“But he hasn’t really told me much about you,” Blaise presses, gently. “I grew up in England and transferred here, oh, about four years ago. You said you grew up here?”

“Actually, I didn’t say that,” Potter says blandly after a slight hesitation. “But I’ve lived here for five.”

“Where did you live before here? I could swear you look familiar.” Blaise says.

Potter pats at his mouth with a paper napkin, and shifts in his seat. He smiles a bit at Draco. “Is the schoolboy crush similarity so striking that your friend would recognize him, too?”

Draco shrugs. “Blaise?”

Blaise nods, snaps his fingers. “That must be it. You look exactly like Harry Potter.”

Draco tenses, waiting, but the name gets no reaction. Potter eats a chip, glancing back and forth between Draco and Blaise for a moment.

“Draco said they weren’t friends,” he ventures after swallowing.

Blaise laughs, loud and abruptly. Even Draco cracks a smile.

“That’s an understatement,” Blaise mutters breathlessly through his laughter. “They positively tried to _kill_ each other.”

Draco kicks him under the table, glaring at him balefully. Blaise grins, completely unrepentant.

For the next several minutes, Blaise asks increasingly personal questions that Potter answers evasively, and Draco gets frustrated—by his friend, Potter, and his own attraction to and confusion about the man. He reaches over and wipes away a smear of ketchup on Potter’s lower lip with his thumb because it’s strangely sexy and also irritating. Potter smiles, blushing, and Draco glances away. He feels Blaise tense beside him.

“I have to be getting back to work now,” Blaise says out of nowhere. “Let me just say a quick goodbye to Draco, and I’ll let you two get back to your lunch. It was nice meeting you, James.”

“Er, you too,” he says and they both freeze for a moment at the use of Potter’s well-known conversational fumble. It’s not as though people don’t say it generally, but really, if you paired “er” with “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” you’d have a complete Potter catchphrase.

Blaise leads him away for a moment and gives him a tight hug, which is odd because they don’t hug. There’s a hushed, quick whisper in his ear. “It’s him. His scar. I saw it.”

“When?”

“When you touched him,” Blaise says quietly, and then releases Draco from his grasp. Draco’s knees feel slightly weak, and makes his way back to the table to collapse gratefully into his seat. Potter is watching Blaise walk away.

“Old boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend. We roomed together in… in boarding school,” Draco says.

“So, nothing ever happened between you two?” Potter asks. “I didn’t say that.”

Draco’s mouth curves up mischievously. “To hear him tell it, he’s one hundred percent heterosexual. There are a few boys in our dorms who would beg to differ, however. He’s seventy-percent, maximum. But he’s a good mate, now.”

Potter chuckles. “That must be nice, staying friends with people you were in school with. He’s a bit nosy, though.”

“He is,” Draco agrees readily. “But it can be worth it. So, you’re not friends with any of the people you went to school with anymore?” He fears it sounds too casual, but he’s having a difficult time detaching.

Potter gives a sigh, and he fidgets with his napkin for a second before meeting Draco’s eyes. “Look, this is awkward. I don’t usually tell people about this until I’ve gotten to know them better, but you seem interested, and… I like you. And there’s the added benefit of you living on a different continent, so if you’re an asshole about it, I never have to see you again.”

Draco stills. “What is it? It can’t be that bad.”

“I don’t actually have a past,” Potter says in a low voice. “I woke up a few years back in the hospital with no memory. And I know it’s weird—you’d be surprised how many guys don’t want to date the guy who has no history—but it’s fine. Like, really. My life is happy, I’ve got friends and I run a business and things are fine. I don’t need someone feeling sorry for me or losing their mind trying to figure out what happened to me. Both of which,” he adds, “has happened with previous boyfriends.”

And there it is, laid out in front of Draco like a present. So many questions answered in one fell swoop. He feels lightheaded from with revelation and hope.

Potter is waiting silently for his reaction, and after a few minutes, Draco knows what to say. He smiles and touches the other man on the inside of his wrist. Potter’s pulse thrums gently under his fingers.

“When you get off work, would you meet me at my hotel?”

***

Draco spends the rest of his day reorganizing his plans.

The amount of gold it takes to arrange for his Portkey time to be moved up is large, but not nearly as staggering as the amount it takes to assure that he can be transported directly to his flat, completely bypassing Customs on the way out of the US and back into Britain. However, Draco didn’t study under his father’s tutelage for nearly eighteen years without learning what kinds of palms to grease, so by the time Potter arrives, just after dusk, everything’s arranged.

He knocks at the door in three sharp raps and Draco takes a look around to makes sure everything is in its place before answering; he’s charmed his room to make it more Muggle-friendly, making the lamps appear electric and even transfiguring a stack of books into one of those televisions, albeit one that won’t work should Potter ask to watch something.

He takes a deep breath and answers the door. Potter stands there, and Draco ignores the leap of his pulse at the sight of him. He invites him in and Potter gives him a shy kiss on the corner of his mouth before following him in.

He looks around. “Nice room! Sort of a weird lobby, but this is… good. You’ve got a view of the ocean from here?”

He walks over to the windows that take up the whole of one wall, lifting the drapes and peering out.

“Yes. Would you like a drink?”

“Thanks, I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Draco pours them wine and approaches Potter from behind, sliding his glass between the space at his elbow and his waist. When Potter takes it, Draco leaves his hand resting on Potter’s hip. He’s just barely taller than the other man now, but it enables him to rest his chin on Potter’s shoulder as they stare out at the ocean beneath the rapidly darkening sky.

Potter is holding his breath. He stills at the feel of Draco’s body touching his, lightly, from behind. After a moment he turns his head, and his eyes are already growing dark with desire. Potter leans back to fit himself more tightly against Draco’s body, and Draco can feel the curve of his arse brushing against his erection.

Draco doesn’t quite know what he’s doing; this wasn’t what he had planned. But his need is so immediate, and surely he’ll never get another chance after tonight, so he leans forward and catches Potter’s mouth in a kiss.

Potter kisses him back, quickly, willingly; his body is half twisted around, arse rubbing persistent circles against Draco’s heavy groin, teeth nipping at Draco’s lower lip. Draco digs his fingers tightly into Potter’s hips. Potter jerks away.

“P—James?”

Potter’s eyes are wide and startled; he looks at Draco oddly, and shakes his head in rapid, tiny movements, as though trying to dislodge something from it.

He smiles, a bit sheepishly. “Sorry. Sorry. Happened sooner than I was expecting, I guess.” His voice turns wry. “You might guess that I don’t go out a lot.”

“I don’t either,” Draco admits softly.

The break in the moment was necessary—really, how would he have explained it later when Potter decided to accuse him of something like rape for taking advantage of someone who didn’t know their own identity?—but disappointment floods through him anyway. He sighs. “Why don’t we talk for a minute? Actually, I’d like to get your opinion on something.”

He gestures for Potter to sit down on the low-slung sofa and the other man does, his limbs loose, movements graceful. He leans back, taking a sip of his wine, relaxing into the cushions and doing nothing to hide the obviousness of his erection, which is clearly outlined beneath his jeans. Draco gulps in a bit of air and removes his wand from a small table nearby, bringing it over to Potter.

And indeed, this is the last thing he needs to do to ensure that Potter is really Potter; Draco has gone through so many scenarios in his mind—that James Black grows a scar because of Draco’s accidental magic, that it really is a sheer coincidence, that Draco himself is finally losing his mind. Even the fact that Potter can see and enter his hotel isn’t really proof, as the odd Muggle can occasionally do so, and need to be Obliviated afterward.  But use of magic will solidify all of his hopes and suspicions, and so he hands over his Hawthorn wand to the other man carefully.

Potter studies it curiously; his hands run up and down the length of it; his fingers trace the grooves at the handle. “What is it? It’s warm.” He smiles a bit wickedly. “We should probably have some actual sex before we decide we need to introduce sex toys.”

 _Merlin._ Draco takes a deep swallow of his wine for something to do besides pounce on the man in front of him.

“I don’t think they’d be needed, actually,” he says. “Actually, it’s, ah, a prototype of an invention I’m thinking about investing in.”

Potter inspects the wand again. “Really? What’s it do?”

“Many things. Want to try it?”

“Sure. How do I work it?”

“You’ll give it a swish, just like this,” Draco says, whirling his fingers in the appropriate motion, “And say _'Lumos_.'”

“Okay.” Potter waves the wand and mutters the incantation. Not only does the tip of the wand begin to glow a blinding blue-white, the lamps in the room brighten momentarily before fading back to their normal hue.

Draco sits, quite abruptly, next to Potter on the sofa—he decides it’s a better option than passing out at his feet.

Potter is smiling widely. “Cool! It doesn’t even look electrical. What else can it do?”

“Try _Nox_ ,” Draco rasps, throat dry, and makes the motion for Potter to duplicate with the wand.

 _“Nox_ ,” Potter commands, and Draco feels the heavy shudder of magic as the wand, all of the lights in his room, and, judging from the winking out of light from behind the drapes, all of those in the building across from them go suddenly dark.

“Oh, shit,” Draco says, blinking in the sudden pitch.

“Er, was it supposed to do that?” Potter sounds nervous, and Draco finds him with his hand, which grasps his thigh first and then follows upward until he can gently pull the wand from Potter’s grip.

“Not… exactly,” Draco manages. “Might need to do some more tests with that one.”  He mutters an incantation under his breath, twitching his wand, and the lights in his room return, although the building next door will probably have an interesting time fixing the problem, he thinks, wincing.

Well. It’s pretty apparent that he’s dealing with a wizard whose latent powers have built up in the time he hasn’t been using them. All misgivings about the identity of the man in front of him have been blanketed in the darkness of _Nox_. The problem, that Draco can only _hope_ he won’t get arrested for, is the next part.

“Is the wine not to your liking?” he asks, taking a sip of his own.

“No, it’s good.” Potter takes another, deeper drink and leans forward, intent clear in his dark green eyes before he kisses Draco again.

Draco leans back in his seat to better allow the kiss and Potter takes full advantage, leaning over him, pinning Draco to the back of the couch with his body, which is all hard lines and soft angles. Draco pulls out of the kiss, twisting his head to reach the shell of Potter’s ear and outline it with his tongue, sucking lightly at the lobe, which makes Potter give a shivery moan that twists at Draco’s insides. And then suddenly Potter is everywhere, his body splayed over Draco’s, rubbing against the length of him. Draco has fallen back further into the couch; he’s half-lying down and the heady weight of Potter is pressing him deep into the cushions as Potter’s hands wander frantically.

Draco licks a stripe of skin, salty, on Potter’s throat and scrapes his teeth under the line of his jaw, biting down on the cords in his neck. One of Potter’s hands grips his hair and the other thrusts between them, searching, and finds Draco’s cock, palming it roughly through the material of his trousers. Draco’s hips stutter upward erratically and he finds himself yanking on Potter’s shirt, trying to dislodge the tuck of it from his jeans, a strip of the tan skin on his stomach just barely exposed when the knock comes.

They pause, hesitate, and Draco’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest as the desire from his cock to keep going almost overrides his brain, which has temporarily forgotten—again—what a horrible idea this is. The knock comes again, and Potter levers himself off of Draco with a rueful chuckle.

“Go,” he says, fingers smoothing Draco’s shirt for him, “Answer that. Then maybe put one of those Do Not Disturb signs on the door.” He grabs for his wineglass and takes another drink.

Draco gets up and answers the door.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy, your Portkey delivery,” the concierge says in a crisp French accent, handing Draco a sealed envelope with a generic smile. “It activates at nine-o’clock, Pacific Standard Time, so I hope you’re packed and ready. The other arrangements are taken care of, as well.”

Potter comes up behind him, waiting, and Draco sucks in a nervous breath as the concierge’s eyes flash to him and his professional expression falters with what can only be recognition.

“James, I’ll be right there. It’s something to do with business,” he says quietly, relieved when Potter simply turns and walks back into the sitting area.

“Was that—?” the concierge blurts, jaw dangling, an astonished forefinger pointing in Potter’s direction. It’s just Draco’s luck to have the one bloody European wizard in the whole of the hotel deliver something to his room.

“My date,” Draco says blandly. “Thank you.”  He shuts the door in the man’s face.

He walks back into the sitting area to find that Potter has removed his t-shirt; he lounges in his seat, knees bent and legs wide. Draco’s nerves crack at seeing so much golden skin; the subtle definition of Potter’s abdominal muscles, the wide expanse of his chest, lightly furred with black hair. Potter is smiling at him, eyes dark and knowing, and Draco presses a distracted hand against his erection, willing it to go down.

“Did you put the sign on the door?” Potter says, voice low.

Draco swallows hard, feet walking closer before he can stop himself. “I need to show you something.”

Potter’s smile grows. “I need to show you something, too. Come here.”

“Fuck,” Draco whispers, closing his eyes tight for a second, wishing with everything in him that this was just a regular date and that he was allowed to partake in what the gorgeous, oblivious man in front of him was offering. “No. Something else.”

Screwing up his courage, Draco retrieves his wand from where it’s fallen on the floor and Summons the lone newspaper Blaise allowed him to keep.

Potter’s mouth drops open. “Really, what _is_ that thing? Bugs aside, you’re going to make a fortune!”

“It’s a wand,” Draco says carefully, handing Potter the newspaper and sitting back down beside him.

“Fitting. Like magic, right?” Potter says, then goes quiet as he stares down at a picture of his own face, at seventeen, stark and skinny.

The picture had been taken by Dennis Creevey, with his brother’s camera, directly after the Battle of Hogwarts. In the photo, Potter smiles, exhaustion and relief etched over his near-gaunt features; he shakes hands and allows himself to be hugged before the photograph loops. Underneath is another photograph, taken at the Weasley wedding several months prior, and Potter is talking furtively to Granger and Ron, wearing dress robes, and then he throws his head back on a laugh as a couple dances passed him. The headline reads, ** _THE SEARCH FOR THE SAVIOR CONTINUES: WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO HARRY POTTER?_**

The silence is thick and terrible. After several minutes, Potter looks up angrily, crumpling the paper in his hands. “What is this shit?”

“I-I recognized you,” Draco says. “The other day. Yesterday. Shit. But you didn’t know me, and I couldn’t be sure it was—was you until…” He gestures vaguely with his wand.

“No, I get it,” Potter says, voice tight. “Instead of just making fun of the amnesiac, you felt like you had to take it a step further by creating a bizarre backstory too. I’ll give you credit—that, at least, has never been done before. Jesus.”

He throws the paper at Draco, who flinches even as it falls harmlessly to the floor between them, and grabs his shirt from the floor, pulling it on in quick, jerky movements. Potter wobbles a bit as he stands, then sways on his feet.

“I can explain, I promise,” Draco says quietly.

But the potion in Potter’s wine is finally taking effect and Potter pins Draco with a stricken, betrayed look before sagging back onto the couch. He tries, once, to heave himself back up, scrambling for purchase against the fabric of the couch, before he slumps fully into it. His eyes flutter closed and his scar burns bright on his forehead, and he mumbles, “This is just fucking _like_ you, Malfoy,” accent clear and apparent, before he passes out.

Draco stares at him, troubled, adrenaline rushing through him at Potter’s last words. He wonders if they mean that Potter has known who he is the whole time or if it’s just a part of whatever spell has been cast on him, fading now.

It doesn’t matter, however; all of the plans have been set in place, and Draco knows that he’ll do whatever he can for his mother—that’s always been the case. Men have done so much worse for so much less.

He takes a deep breath and breaks the seal on the envelope, glancing inside at the innocuous blue-and-green marble. He looks over at the clock. 8:50.

Draco Summons his things; his bag has been packed for hours. He grabs some powder and sticks his head into the Floo: Blaise is waiting for him.

“Did you get their address?”

Blaise shakes his head. “I’ll have it for you by the morning. You could always take him to the Ministry.”

“No,” Draco says emphatically. “I don’t even want to consider what such a public unveiling would do to him. Not to mention what the community itself would do to me. This is better.”

“They’re remarkably private,” Blaise says, “for being so in the public eye.”

“That’s _why_ they’re private, you nitwit,” Draco says with exasperation.

“Do me a favor—“

“Another one?”

“Shut it. Send an owl—or whatever it is you send here. I highly doubt their Floo is open. Use whatever connections you have to get a letter to them; I’ll reimburse you for whatever the cost. I need secondary verification—they’re not just going to listen to me, of all people,” Draco says, the enormity of what’s about to happen hitting him in the face like a blow of Granger’s fist.

“Will do. Good luck.”

Draco exits the Floo and reaches for Potter’s hand, then changes his mind and sits next to him, his bag in his lap, and clamps an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ll thank me, one day. I hope,” he says to the sleeping man, and then touches the marble.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco stirs his tea with an absent motion of his wand and adds another warming charm to it. Really, it’s far too hot and muggy for tea this time of year, but he’s always found it comforting, and he needs a little comfort right now.

Potter is laying stretched out on his chaise lounge; he breathes deeply, the steady rise and fall of his chest giving reassurance to Draco whenever he glances over. He should be waking up soon, and Draco feels as though he’s been riding the sharp edge of panic for the last eighteen hours—for a man who has learned the hard way to have a contingency plan for every situation, he’s remarkably stumped over how to behave when Potter opens his eyes.

With a sigh, Draco looks down at his writing desk, covered in crumpled parchment, each piece a draft of a letter that sounded too much like a ransom note.

_I need to speak with you. I have Potter. Please bring his wand._

_There is more about Potter than you know; I need a meeting, please bring his wand._

_Do not contact the authorities. Potter is in my care—he is fine, right now, but…_

He’d finally settled on something he hoped wouldn’t have the Aurors descending upon him:

_I have information on Potter’s whereabouts. I need to see you immediately. If you are able to bring his wand for verification purposes, please do so. If you need personal substantiation, please allow messages from Blaise Zabini as well. I do not think it would be healthy for Potter to be exposed so early, which is why I hope you take this letter seriously._

_Sincerely,_

_D. Malfoy._

He’d included his Floo address and had immediately opened it to receive visitors; he’d also sent his most determined eagle owl with three copies of the letter in case the first two were Vanished or Incendio-d, and requested that they show up at half nine. Hopefully, Potter would be awake by then, but not enough to accidentally hex Draco into oblivion.

Unfortunately, Potter still maintains his annoying habit of exceeding everyone’s expectations, because just after nine o’clock, his eyes snap open, fully cognizant and furious.

“I’m sorry!” Draco says instantly, noting the murderous intent on Potter’s face, and casts a quick _Incarcerous_ in his direction. Silver cords lash out of his wand and wrap around Potter’s wrists and ankles, tying him to the chaise, binding him where he sits.

“What the _fuck_?!”

“I’m sorry,” Draco repeats, more calmly. “I can explain things, if you let me. How much do you remember?”

Potter’s nostrils flare; his jaw flexes. “I remember that I was perfectly willing to give you whatever you deemed necessary to take by force.”

Draco tries to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but really, the man is just as thick as he’d ever been when he was angry.

“Take stock of yourself. I’m sure you can tell that I haven’t touched you.”

Potter pauses. “You kidnapped me.”

“True. Which, as I’ve said, I can explain. But I meant, more specifically, what do you remember about last night?”

“Your idiotic magical mystery paper?” Potter says sarcastically, tugging at his ropes. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“Do you remember what you said right before you passed out?”

There’s another, longer silence. Potter’s ministrations against his ropes pause. “Yes.”

“Why did you say that?” Draco prods gently.

“I—I don’t know,” Potter says, confused. “It just… came out.”

“Well, that’s good. Would you like some tea?" 

Potter looks at him distrustfully. “Water,” he finally says.

Draco Summons a glass and fills it with an incantation from his wand. Potter’s eyes widen fractionally, but he otherwise makes no response. He allows Draco to lift the glass to his lips and drinks deeply from it for several seconds, finally pulling away with a gasp. Water dribbles onto his chin, and Draco Vanishes it.

“Magic,” Potter says, the word flat.

“Yes.”

“And you claim that I’m someone famous who disappeared years ago.”

“Yes. We should have company shortly that will be able to help; to answer any questions that you have,” Draco says, glancing at the clock.

“You answer them,” Potter spits, resuming his struggle with his bindings.

Draco observes him with a sigh. “All right. Five years ago, you disappeared. Wizarding society has been searching for you ever since. Your name is Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James, godson to Sirius Black, all deceased. The whole of your part in the War is really too complex to explain in full right now, but suffice it to say, you were instrumental in ending it. You’re a rather powerful wizard,” Draco says, though the knowledge that he was, in fact, talking to Potter—of all people—forces him to add, begrudgingly, “In your own way.”

Potter barks out a completely humorless laugh. “How did you get those pictures of me?”

“I—“ Draco stops. “They’re _pictures of you_ , you dolt. They’re to be had for the taking, along with your history if you can bring yourself to believe me.”

“And why should I? I’ve seen people on the beach path do twice what you’ve just done,” Potter points out more calmly, finally giving up on his restraints. His wrists are beginning to sport red marks.

“All right, what would you have me do to prove that magic exists?” Draco drawls, finally feeling as though he’s on solid ground. “Something that you wouldn’t see from one of the street performers.”

Potter looks around wildly. His eyes land on the glass in Draco’s hand. “Change that to wine.”

Draco laughs; he’s familiar enough with that reference, at least. “Want to worship me, Potter?” He taps the glass with his wand twice, murmuring, and the clear liquid swirls, turning a deep burgundy. He lifts it up to Potter’s lips, who takes a sip and grimaces.

“I know. Transfiguration of food and liquids doesn’t always taste quite right,” Draco acknowledged, pulling the glass away. “Anything else?”

“Levitate yourself. No, levitate _me_ ,” Potter demands, looking triumphant.

Draco flicks his wand and the sofa rises under Potter, bobbing slightly at the effort it takes Draco to sustain so much weight with such a simple charm. He lowers it carefully after a minute, gauging Potter for a reaction. Potter holds himself quite still, breathing shallowly. After what seems an eternity, he looks back up at Draco, face blank.

“Can you untie me now?”

“Are you going to attempt to kill me?” Draco asks lightly, wand still at the ready. “Or do something stupid and run out of here, screaming? Your face is incredibly well-known here, and you’d probably be mobbed and killed without your wand.”

“I won’t do either,” Potter clips out shortly. “Get these things off of me.” When Draco wavers, Potter adds, voice softer, “Trust breeds trust.”

Draco releases his bindings. Potter sits for a moment, a more surprised look on his face than he’d had when Draco had performed spells for him. He rubs at his wrists absently and takes a deep breath. “You said they know me here. Where’s here?”

“Wizarding London,” Draco responds, relaxing a bit when Potter doesn’t move from his seat.

“How the hell did you get me here!” Potter demands. Draco raises his eyebrows and Potter shakes his head, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. “Right. Never mind.”

“I don’t know what happened to you, Potter, I really don’t. But I have no doubt you’re who I say you are; I’ve confirmed in every way that I can before I brought you here,” Draco explains regretfully. “I know this isn’t ideal. But—there are people who can fix this, your memory, I’m sure. And you can have your life back. And maybe help others in the process.”

“I had a life at home,” Potter grumbles with no small amount of resentment. “I didn’t ask for you to save me. I thought we’d go out, have a good time, maybe shag—“

“That!” Draco cries, pointing at him.

Potter freezes. “I meant to say ‘fuck.’”

“But you didn’t. It’s coming back. Your mannerisms, your speech,” Draco says, relief flooding him. “This is going to work.”

“Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“Was any part of your attraction to me real?” Potter asks softly. He looks down.

Draco swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. “It was. I just didn’t expect for—“

The sudden chiming of his wards ring out as Granger and Weasley—tumble out of his Floo, one after the other, both looking equally livid. Granger is round with child— _when did that happen_ , Draco wonders, startled by her appearance—but the first thing she does is lash her wand out and Disarm him.

Draco puts his hands up, placating. “Hold onto it if you need to.”

“What the _fuck_ made you think this would be funny, Malfoy?” Weasley starts. He’s dressed in full Aurors’ robes, deep burgundy and flared at the waist, and he raises his wand threateningly at Draco’s face. “How did you even get our address?”

“I called in some favors,” Draco clips out. “And it’s not a joke. Believe me, there is nothing remotely humorous about this situation.”

“All of that crap we hear from people,” Weasley continues ranting, “Even Luna for fuck’s sake, all of that stuff they print about how you’ve changed and you decide to—“

“Ron.”

“—write us a letter as if we’re stupid enough to believe that you, of all people, would know anything about Harry—“

“Ron.”

“—and you’d better believe you’re going back on the active watch list after this, I don’t care what I have to do; I’ll talk to Kingsley myself, because if you think—“

“Ron!”

Granger’s voice becomes a shout and Weasley’s tirade ends just as she pushes past him and runs over to the lounge, falling into Potter’s arms, which close around her automatically. She begins laughing, and then her laughter turns to tears, and she pulls away to begin patting Potter all over, as though making sure he’s actually in front of her. Something painful knots in Draco’s stomach as he watches.

“Oh, my God, Harry, it’s you—it’s really you, isn’t it? If it was Polyjuice—but no, he’d have to have a sample for it, which, where would he get that from?” she babbles rhetorically, touching his face and running her fingers through his hair before finally gripping his hands tightly. Potter stares at her, unsettled and silent, and she continues, “And Merlin, you look older and you’re here, and you look so _well_ , what happened to you, oh Harry, we’ve missed you so much!”

Draco looks away and sees Weasley’s eyes slowly fill with a rough sort of hope.

“Harry, is that you, Mate?” He shuffles forward and sinks to his knees in front of Granger and Potter, seated on the chaise, and a choked groan escapes his throat. His eyes are wet. “Is that really you?”

Potter looks over at Draco, his face pinched and tense, then back at his friends. “I, er, I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” he says guiltily in the face of their overwhelming joy. “I don’t know… anything, really, except what Draco has told me.”

Granger sniffles, swiping at her tears with a distracted hand. She looks up at Draco, her face equal parts angry, expectant, and afraid. “What happened? What’s wrong with him? Where did you find him?” And then, surprising him, “Why is he calling you Draco?”

“It’s my _name_ , Granger,” Draco huffs.  Then he outlines the events that had occurred in finding Potter and bringing him home, as simply as possible, carefully editing the more social aspects.

When he’s finished, Potter clears his throat. “I… I’m not sure what’s going on, really. I woke almost five years ago in a hospital in LA with no memory of my past. None,” he emphasizes. “I didn’t have any ID, my fingerprints weren’t on record anywhere. I had nothing. I didn’t know anyone. They called it retrograde amnesia; they couldn’t find any sort of head injury to account for it, but… I think my case file is still open somewhere.”

Granger has gotten herself under control, her face taking on a determined expression that Draco recognizes. “Has M-Draco explained the implications of… Everything to you?”

Potter casts him another look that Draco can’t interpret. “He’s told me I’m a wizard, and have been missing for five years. He showed me a newspaper. Oh.” He looks more closely at Granger and Weasley. “You were in it, too. With me.”

“That’s right, Harry,” Granger says encouragingly. “We’re your friends.”

“Been through a right lot together, mate,” Weasley interjects, reaching out to grab tight to Potter’s free hand and squeeze.

“Can I—“ Granger looks doubtful, then squares her shoulders and pulls her wand out again from her bright green Healer’s robes. “I need to check you over, Harry. It won’t take but a minute.”

Potter nods and sits still as she begins taking a diagnostic, the tip of her wand glowing different colors as she waves it over his head, in front of his chest, and down the line of the rest of him. She touches it to his wrists and throat briefly and there are a series of intermittent glows, like a pulse, which shoot out and make a strange tapping noise, and then she turns to Weasley again, her smile brilliant. “It’s _him_ , Ron. His scars are gone, I don’t know why, but his magical signature matches. There are traces of a powerful _Obliviate_ , although why someone would do that and not fill in the gaps, I can’t explain. But… it’s really him.”

Weasley lowers his head again and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Come on,” he says to Potter. “We’ll contact Kingsley—Kingsley Shacklebolt, he’s the Minister of Magic; he’ll keep this quiet as we figure out what’s happened to you. Maybe we can tell my parents; they’re going to go nuts. You can stay with us—‘Mione has a friend or two at St. Mungo’s who can be trusted to visit, I’d warrant.”

Granger nods rapidly, her frizzy hair coming loose from its coil. “Yes, of course. We have a spare. Or, maybe it would be better if we moved into Grimmauld Place for the time being?” she wonders aloud. “Get him into a place he recognizes?”

“That might be good,” Weasley agrees. “But we don’t want to scare him away—you know, we haven’t been there in a while, and that place…”

“No, you’re right. Oh, goodness, we can get Kreacher from Hogwarts if anyone needs further proof—he’ll still obey Harry, and that should be enough for any wizard to—“

Draco is watching their conversation incredulously, a strange, uncertain, conversational Snitch fluttering between husband and wife, words and plans bouncing back and forth about a man who is obviously growing more irritated by the moment. He’s about to interject when Potter loudly does it for him. “ _Hey_! What about what _I_ want to do about this… this… my situation?”

They fall silent, abashed. Granger bites her lip. “I’m so sorry, Harry, what do you want? Would you rather stay with us at our place? You have a house—it’s not really fit for, well, company, but we could clean it out, come stay with you there. Whatever you want.”

“I—Fuck!” Potter rubs a hand over his face. “I have to call my assistant and tell her I’m, er, out of town; she’ll need to take over my shop. I’ve got to get someone to feed Morty. I don’t have any of my things with me. This isn’t what I expected when I thought about…”  He looks bewildered and achingly bereft, but there must be plenty of Gryffindor left in him, because as Draco watches, his face hardens and becomes resolute. “I need to know more about myself before I make any decisions about whether or not to stay here—in wizard-land. I’m famous, I guess?”

Weasley’s face eases into a smile. He laughs. “You could say that.”

“Well, I don’t want anyone to know about me. This isn’t—I’m don’t—I’m not ready for that,” Potter says firmly.

“Of course, Harry,” Granger says.

“And I want to stay with Draco.”

Draco’s mind stutters to a halt, sure he’s misheard. Granger and Weasley begin their cacophony of objections, talking over each other, but Potter shakes his head at them, face mulish.  “I don’t know you,” he insists. “I’m sorry. But even though he seduced me under false pretenses and kidnapped me and dumped me in the middle of this mess, he’s the only thing here I recognize, even a little. And… I trust him.”

Grangers mouth opens and closes rapidly, her eyes darting back and forth between Draco and Potter. Draco shifts on his feet, uncomfortable with both the request, and Granger’s keen observation. “That might not be the best idea, Potter. We… I think I mentioned… we didn’t best get on.”

Weasley laughs again, and this time the sound has a sharper edge to it.

“Well, we do now,” Potter says stubbornly. “And it’s this or I want to go home; I can fill in pieces from there. And you all have no right to keep me here if I object.”

His friends are silent, exchanging a look that speaks of a long understanding of Potter, and of each other. Ron shakes his head frantically at Granger’s silent entreaty, but she wears him down with her eyes and he visibly gives up, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling in disgust.

Finally, Granger says, “All right, Harry. I’m a—well, I guess you could refer to me as a wizarding doctor. My professional opinion is that you should surround yourself with whatever you feel most comfortable with. Ron and I will need to come by frequently to see you; I’ll need to put together a list of spells to try to get back your memory, and that could be tricky.

“It’s probably best if you see those of us regularly who were closest to you, as well. There are several people we can trust with the information that you’re back. Kingsley will want to see you, too. But if you’re most comfortable with Draco, then of course. Does that sound okay to you?” At Harry’s nod, she turns her face to Draco, and her voice goes cool. “And you’re okay with it?”

Draco shrugs helplessly; what can he say?

“I’m okay with it,” he snaps out bitterly, trying not to look at Potter, whose eyes are pleading for his consent. He softens a little and adds, “And it wasn’t false pretenses.”

Potter looks at him and his face relaxes into an almost-smile. “Prove that, later. When I’m me again.”

Briskly, Granger stands and turns to Draco. “I need to speak with you for a few minutes. In private.”

A tingle of nerves begins in the pit of his stomach; of the three of them, he’d often thought Granger to be most formidable. Still, he gives a brief nod and leads her into his kitchen, leaving Potter alone with Weasley. He offers her some tea and she shakes her head, holding her swollen stomach as she eases herself into a chair at his table. “

Were you there looking for Harry? In California,” she clarifies.

Draco sits across from her. “No. I was there on business and I—I saw him. But he had—has—absolutely no awareness about any of this. Frankly, I’m far from convinced you should leave him with me, despite what he says,” Draco adds, because it’s true.

Granger sighs, her nose wrinkling. Her voice is deliberately clean of judgement when she speaks. “And you’re dating?”

Draco looks away; a Flitterbird in bright pinks and blues darts passed his window.

“We are not involved,” he says carefully. “When I was unsure of his identity, I thought it may be best to get to know him better. I—I won’t deny that there was a particular social element to these meetings.”

Granger is eyeing him shrewdly. “But you like him.”

“I like James Black,” Draco corrects, managing to keep his face cool at the lie. “I have no idea about whether or not Harry Potter is still the same entitled, sanctimonious prat he was in school.”

“Entitled?” Granger laughs a little. “Pot, kettle, I think. But anyway. Can you keep him safe in the interim?”

“I can. I _will_ ,” Draco says, and it comes out louder and firmer than he’d intended it to.

“Because I’d hate for you to have to explain to the Ministry how something happened to him, now that we’ve found him again,” she says lightly.

Draco smirks at her; it feels comfortable, like settling under a warm blanket. “Subtle, Granger.”

She looks amused. “I’m just saying. And it’s Granger-Weasley, now. Same as Ron. Which takes longer to say, but one of your problems always was knowing when to shut up, so you might like it. However, if you get tired of it, feel free to call me Hermione. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it with a click. He gives a cautious nod.

Granger—Hermione, he corrects himself—begins to heave herself out of the chair, and he automatically extends a hand to help her. She takes it without thought, and then gives him her first real smile. “Thank you. We have a lot of things to get in place before we come back tonight. I do have another question before we go, though.”

“Yes?” “You mentioned earlier that you’d seen his scar appear on your second meeting. Did anything precipitate it? Because there’s no evidence of it in my diagnostic; it’s as if his body is completely unblemished by them, which would not be a side-effect of even the most powerful of Obliviation. And Disillusionment or Glamour charms fade after a certain amount of time, so—“

“Actually, I remember that it did seem like a fading charm,” Draco says thoughtfully. “It happens when, ah, I touch him. And once last night on its own.”

“Really?” She doesn’t seem shocked so much as intrigued, and walks out of the kitchen. “I need to see this.”

Draco follows closely behind, discomfort twisting his stomach. He’s not going to have to snog Potter in front of his friends, is he?  When that thought is more appealing than he likes, Draco scowls to himself and walks up to Potter. Hermione is explaining what she wants him to do.

“…So if you can hold your hair up in the front? That’s right, good, thanks,” she says when Potter’s hand comes up to swipe the hair on his forehead back. She touches his hand, arm, then cups his cheek and nothing happens. “Draco?”

Draco sighs and leans forward. He draws a single finger down the curve of Potter’s cheekbone lightly, touching the edge of his mouth, and ignores the burst of pleasure when Potter’s scar burns bright on his forehead, standing out stark against his tan, before it shimmers and fades.

Hermione’s eyes are wide with speculation. “Hmm. Harry, do you mind?”

Potter gives his own little sigh, but he seems patient enough. “Sure, go ahead.”

She reaches out and mimics the movement. His forehead stays blank and smooth. Granger-Weasley—fuck it, Ron—touches Potter too, with similar non-effects.

“Well. Thank you, Harry,” Hermione says, almost formally. “Do you feel anything when Draco touches you?”

Draco notes the flush staining Potter’s cheeks with interest. “Well, er, you know, I mean. Yes, sure.”

Hermione’s cheeks pink up as well. “I mean at the site of your scar.”

“Oh.” Potter flicks a quick glance at Draco, and he holds back a smile. “Sorry. I can’t get used to the idea of having a scar there. I still feel like I’m going to wake up from a weird dream any second.”

“We can only hope,” Hermione says with a soft exhale, then waits, looking at Potter pointedly.

“So, yeah. I guess I can,” he says, answering her question. “It feels… cold, I guess? Like, so cold it’s hot? But just for a split second.”

“Interesting. Thank you. We should be going now, Ron,” she says as an aside.

Ron is looking between Draco and Potter with a dumbfounded expression as he finally seems to put together the implications of their “meetings” and “touches” together. But he seems to get ahold of himself fairly quickly, shaking his head a bit, and pulls Potter into his arms.

“I know you don’t know me,” Draco hears him say thickly. “But I know you. I knew you weren’t dead. I _knew_ it. We’ll get your life back for you.”

“You’re mental,” Potter says, accent thick, hugging him back and chuckling a bit. “But okay.”

Ron pulls out of his arms quickly, surveying Potter with the same intense expression that Hermione now wears, the one Draco feels on his own face.  “Do you—did you remember me just now?”

Potter looks bewildered. “No, I just…” He darts another look at Draco. “I just say things because they feel like that’s what I should say.”

“It’s true,” Draco confirms. “He’s done it a few times. He’s consistently surprised by it.”

“Well, that’s great! Maybe your mind will heal itself!” Hermione announces, trying to contain her obvious excitement. “You should just… keep doing whatever feels natural. Oh!” She digs around a small bag that she pulls from her pocket and pulls out a sculpted, slender length of holly. Potter’s wand. She hands it to him. “This is yours. I might not… It might not be safe for you to use it too much, but, um, Draco can help you learn what you need to know, okay?”

Potter nods, visibly distracted by the feel of the wand in his hand—it shoots out a shower of sparks when he takes it—and after another round of tremulous hugs, Ron and Hermione depart via Floo.

Silence settles in Draco’s flat but for the _tick tick tick_ of the clock on his mantle, and the thumping of his own heart.

“I guess I should show you around?” Draco ventures.

Potter spreads his hands. “I’m game. I—um, do you have a spare bedroom?”

That stings a bit, even though Draco has no expectations in that department any longer. He nods curtly, explaining the various details of his flat that Potter will need to be aware of: don’t attempt the Floo without proper instruction and supervision; this is how you call for a house-elf; this is what a house-elf does; the taps on the bath are magically attuned to the user’s preferences to heat and bubbles and scent; do not drink anything in a potion bottle without express explanation of what it does first.  Potter wanders around after him, taking in everything with wide eyes, gripping his wand in both hands so tightly that Draco fears he might accidentally snap it.

Draco leads him to the spare room, directly across from his own, and Potter seems pleased with the decorations, which are modern and angular; the bed is low and clean and boxy; the closet in the corner covered with a long mirror. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and his eyes rest on a painting of a beach in Devon that is imbibed with a nice little piece of charm work that Draco is particularly proud of: the landscape reflects the mood of the person who occupies the room. Right now it’s cold and gray, and the waters are dark, moving restlessly onto the shore.

“I think I’d like to be alone for a little while,” he says, gazing at it.

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Draco says, feeling confused and regretful all at once. “I should have known.”

“This is… a lot,” Potter mumbles. “You know, you picture your life and think, ‘I must’ve had a family, I must have had friends.’ You don’t think, ‘I must be this extremely famous magic wizard who lives on the other side of the world.’”

Draco almost smiles. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Potter echoes.

“You’re taking this extremely well, actually,” Draco says with no small amount of admiration.

Potter takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Well, I’m either a complete fucking lunatic, so it doesn’t matter if I play along, or all of this is real so it’s important that I play along.”  It’s such a Potter thing to say that Draco lets his smile grow. He shrugs, then meets Draco’s eyes. “Can you get me some of my things?”

“Yes,” Draco says, feeling rather bad about the position Potter is in. “Let me know what you need. It might take a couple of days, but we’ll also arrange for you to call your assistant. And you mentioned a pet you need to feed?”

“Morty. She’ll be good for a couple of weeks, though; she didn’t eat too long ago,” Potter says. “She’s a snake.”

Draco blinks rapidly as he absorbs this. Harry Potter has a pet snake.

Who he named _Morty_.

Potter looks at him oddly as Draco’s face twists with this information. “What?”

Helplessly, Draco begins to laugh.

***

It’s late, and Draco is tired and aggravated; he hasn’t slept in well over a day and he’s sick to death of people traipsing in and out of his flat with no regard to his feelings on the matter. What irritates him more is that he knew his life would get turned upside down once he brought Potter home—he just had no idea it would happen so quickly and personally.

Just after dusk, Hermione and Ron had returned with Robards and Kingsley in tow, who had administered a series of tests on both Draco and Potter and ransacked Draco’s flat looking for Dark and/or dangerous items before giving them each a dose of Veritaserum. They separated them and Robards questioned Draco about virtually everything in his life: how much money was in his vault, when he’d first seen Potter, what he had to gain from bringing Potter back, considering their well-known antagonism.

Draco had answered all of his questions automatically, the truth pulled from his tongue. He answered so many questions that it started to seem like Robards was simply taking the piss with him even though he was perfectly aware that Aurors were notoriously meticulous about gathering information. It was only when Robards asked him what his motives were in conjunction with Potter that Draco had paused; he was curious about the answer, too.

His mouth opened, and he waited for the truth to fall out of it. “I want to take care of him,” he’d said, surprising himself.

Robards raised his eyebrows. “And is that it?”

“No,” Draco admitted, cringing. “I want to fuck him, as well.”

Robards eyebrows virtually disappeared at that. “I see. And do you have plans to take advantage of him in this state?”

Sweating, Draco opened his mouth, enormously relieved when the word “No” came out.

Robards then ended the interview, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. When he was relatively certain the potion had worn off, Draco joined the others in his sitting room; the Minister was giving Potter as detailed a rundown of the events that had taken place over the course of his life and what they knew about his disappearance.

“As far as we can tell,” he said in his deep, resonant voice, “this may have been a case of accidental magic on your part, Harry. All of the readings we took at the time indicate an upsurge in your magic right up until… the event. Your disappearance.”

Harry shook his head roughly. “There’s no way. I don’t… I don’t know who I was, but there’s no way I would do this to anyone, let alone myself. You have no idea what it was like. What it’s _been_ like.”

Hermione sat down next to him and took his hand. “You went through something huge. Life-changing. No one thinks it happened on purpose, Harry. And we still don’t know for sure.” Her mouth drew down into a little bow. “The problem is, of course, that if you did do this to yourself—accidentally—then we’re not dealing with undoing a simple Obliviate spell. That’s a spell that wipes your memories,” she explained as an afterthought. “

Thanks, ‘Mione, got that.”

Everyone stilled for a moment before she moved on, a smile beginning to twitch at her lips. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve taken several readings of your magical signature and I’ll be analyzing it for differences and similarities to what it was five years ago, to give us a better idea of what’s been done and how to proceed.

“I’ve brought photographs for you of your parents, all of us. Ron has brought a bunch of newspapers. I’m leaving my diaries with you,” she continued. “We want you to go over everything as soon as you feel comfortable. I want you to understand, Harry,” she added gently, “that a lot of it isn’t pleasant. I’m sure Draco can fill in the blanks as much as he knows them, but what we’re leaving with you is fairly detailed and actually extends before you were born. My diaries detail the year I met you through the year after you disappeared. Ron and I will be leaving you with something so that you can call us at any time if you have questions.”

“I do have one,” Potter said. “Why does my scar show up for Draco and no one else? If you guys are supposed to be the people I was closest to?”

Sadness swept across Hermione’s face, so quickly there and gone that Draco thought he might have imagined it. “We’re looking into that, too. At one point, you mastered his wand, so that’s a possibility. It could be due to any… physiological reactions you have toward him.   Mostly likely it's simply because he was the first person from your previous life that you'd encountered since your disappearance.  We’ll let you know if we uncover anything.”

Robards had returned then with a cell phone; Draco hadn’t even seen him leave. He’d cast a magical dampening spell on the room and handed it to Harry, who used it to call his assistant, Patty, and let her know he would be out of town for an extended period. Robards also let Harry know that that he could have Morty there by the following day.

By the time everyone leaves, it’s nearing midnight, and Draco is as hungry as he is exhausted.

Potter looks as wrung out as he is, and Draco calls for Spark and requests food be brought to them in the sitting room. When she returns a few minutes later, it’s with a tray laden with sandwiches, crisps, apple slices and pudding. Draco conjures a small table for each of them as Potter wearily begins piling food on his plate.

“This is good,” he says, at length. “What are those little guys—house elves? Do they work for all wizards? Hermione said I have one.”

Draco swallows a bite of ham and cheese. “Yes, you do. He’s a sort of nasty little fellow, although I’ve only met him a couple of times and house-elves only have to be loyal to their Masters. Granger—Hermione—had a little thing about ethical treatment toward them in school, but I read something in the paper recently where even she admits they’re happier when linked to a person or place.”

“So they’re like little butlers?”

Draco smiles. “I suppose. And chefs and personal assistants and housekeepers. The life of a house-elf is fairly busy, I expect, but I don’t think they require a lot of sleep.”

“And they’re happy doing this?” Potter says uncertainly.

“Mine always have been,” Draco says, then falters, thinking of Dobby. He shakes it off, avoiding Potter’s eyes.

When they’re finished eating, Potter sits back with a contented sigh. He pins Draco with his eyes, which are bloodshot but still so startlingly pretty. “I want to say something.”

Draco wipes his mouth with his napkin and sets it aside, giving his attention over to Potter. “Yes?”

“I’m not happy with you. About the way you did things. Even if you weren’t… faking your attraction to me—“

“Do you think I was faking my erection, too?” Draco mutters crossly.

Potter ignores it. “Your methods could have been different. I don’t know how,” he allows, “but I’m sure they could. So I still feel like it was pretty shitty of you to drug me and bring me here.” Draco looks down at his hands, which are tightly clenched. “But. I’m getting the idea—from you, from everyone—that you’re… I’m not sure. On probation or something. And that bringing me here was at great personal risk to you. And since this is what I _need_ , and you somehow knew that, I want to thank you,” Potter says. “And thank you for letting me stay here.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco says when he recovers from his shock. He tilts his head, considering. “Why _did_ you decide you wanted to stay here, Potter? It wasn’t just the reason you said.”

Now it’s Potter’s turn to look away. “They _really_ love me. Don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“It’s hard to be around that sort of… expectation. I feel like… I’m not remembering things, but there are these moments where I say something or do something and it feels more me than I can ever remember feeling,” Potter says, struggling to explain. “I think, if I were around them all of the time, I would feel like I had to force it. To make sure they were okay. To make sure they didn’t worry, or feel hurt when I couldn’t remember them.”

“You love them, too,” Draco points out, throat tight. “That’s what that is, Potter.”

“Maybe,” Potter acknowledges. “Maybe I just have no frame of reference for it yet. But still, it’s easier here. You and I—there’s something different. I don’t feel like you’d treat me like I’m about to break any second. Although I wish you’d stop apologizing and calling me Potter. Why do you do that?”

“It’s what we’ve always called each other,” Draco says, a little mystified, himself. “By our last names. Habit, I guess. We were rivals in school, as I’ve said. I can try to stop.”

“Things were really bad between us, weren’t they?”

Draco thinks for a minute, wondering just how honest he’s supposed to be. “Yes,” he says finally. “At one point, near the worst of it, I tried to literally torture you. You retaliated by nearly slicing me in pieces with your wand. I still have the scars.”

“You do?” Potter seems equal parts uncomfortable with and interested by the information. He hesitates. “Can I see?”

Draco narrows his eyes. He Vanishes their tables and reaches up, carefully unknotting and loosening his tie and pulling it free from his collar, then pulls the tails of his shirt from his trousers and begins undoing his buttons from the top. Potter leans forward and watches, eyes burning, and Draco’s hands pause, then resume, fingers feeling clumsy and almost weak. His cock begins to thicken in his trousers; it feels almost as though he’s doing a strip-tease, and yet his embarrassment is only matched by the thrill building in his stomach.

When all of his buttons are undone, Draco opens his shirt slowly and leans back again, revealing his scars. There are four of them, and they’ve faded to a white-silver now, but each is about a quarter of an inch wide, and over ten inches long; they slash over his stomach and chest, crisscrossing at one point right beneath his left nipple. Healed though they’ve been for years, they’ll always be visible.

Potter sucks in a breath and holds it. He makes a little distressed sound in the back of his throat, getting up from his seat to walk over to Draco and kneel in between his bended knees. He touches them, one by one, tracing each with the whole of his hand, which is spread like a starfish. Draco shifts, arousal warring with the sudden vulnerability he feels as Potter lingers over the wounds he once gave him.

“I’m sorry I did that,” he says, voice low.

“We both tried to hurt each other,” Draco says. He’s never felt the need to, but he both excuses his actions in that moment as those of a stupid, scared child, and forgives Potter his.

“Still.” Potter’s hands are stroking his skin now, low on Draco’s stomach, right above his belt, as though petting a kitten. His eyes are serious. “There’s something different between us now, though, isn’t there?”

Draco swallows hard. Potter’s hand is about two inches higher than he needs it. “Yes. Between _us_. But you might not feel that way after you remember everything.”

“I won’t ever not be sorry I did this to you, Draco,” Potter murmurs. His lips tighten for a second, and then he leans back, levering himself off the floor neatly. “So, you don’t think this is a good idea?”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Draco says, feeling breathless. “But one I could get in a lot of trouble for.”

“Are you sure?” At Draco’s nod, he gives a rueful, sheepish smile. “ Then we should probably go to sleep.”

“Yes. I’ll follow in a minute,” Draco says, searching the bubbling cauldron of his emotions for a smile to give back.

Potter begins to walk away but stops, looking back at him wistfully. “Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight. Harry,” Draco says. The name tastes like a truffle on his tongue.

Harry smiles again, and leaves.

After a several minutes, Draco heads down the hall. Harry’s door is slightly ajar, and Draco can hear the shower running in the attached bath. Draco crosses to his room, pulls out a set of pajamas. As an afterthought, he also adds a pair of trousers, a shirt, socks and shoes, and assembles it all in a stack which he brings back to Harry’s room. He lays the night clothes on the bed is setting the rest in a chair when the shower turns off, and Draco wills his feet to move but nothing happens. He’s simply standing there like an idiot when Harry opens the bathroom door, a towel slung low around his waist and another rubbing his dripping hair.

Harry stops, eyes wide, as he looks at Draco.

“Change your mind?” he says, voice impossibly low.

Draco licks his lips. He gestures vaguely to the clothes. “It occurred to me that you might want something to sleep in. I brought clothes for the morning, too; I can transfigure them to fit, if they don’t. Or I can have Spark clean yours, whatever you like, until we get you new ones.”

He’s fully aware that he’s babbling, but Harry-in-a-towel is having a completely different effect on him than Blaise-in-a-towel did, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he used to see Blaise in school walking around completely naked after his shower. 

Harry's nipples are small and dark, and the hair on his chest is sparse and curling; it matches the trail leading down from his belly button to the relaxed bulge beneath his towel, which is slung below the angles of his hipbones. Harry’s body glistens, dappled with water, and steam and light streams out behind him; it looks as if he’s caught in a cloud.

“Oh. Thanks.” Harry picks up his glasses from where he’d stored them on the dresser and puts them on, face rather pleased as Draco ogles him.

Seeing wet-Harry-in-a-towel-with-his-glasses-on is what finally spurs Draco’s feet to move.  He trips slightly, practically running to his own room, and calls out a suspiciously wobbly “goodnight!” behind him as he shuts his door with too much force. He viciously swears under his breath and yanks off his belt, undoing his flies desperately and reaching into his pants, eyes screwed shut as his fingers close around his aching dick. He pulls frantically and sets up a fast rhythm, his mind filled with thoughts of Harry kissing him from last night, brushing searching hands over Draco’s groin, and then he imagines Harry arching under him, splayed on his belly and arse cheeks open as Draco pounds into him, reaching around to fist his cock until he comes.

It takes barely any time at all, maybe a minute or two, before he’s groaning and spurting over his own rapidly moving hand; he doesn’t think he’s ever come so fast in his life, not even as a fourteen-year-old with no self-control. He usually takes his time, enjoying himself in a hot bath or under cool sheets, teasing his nipples, using lube on his cock and arse. But he usually hasn’t been riding a knife edge of repressed arousal for two days. He usually doesn’t have Harry Potter wet and mostly willing and practically naked fifteen feet away from him, and Draco wonders disconsolately how often a man can masturbate before he goes insane, because he suspects he’s going to be doing this a lot.

Just then, Harry’s voice drifts across the hall. It sounds deeply amused. “I’m going to assume—and hope—you’re not always that quick.”

Horrified, Draco looks at the door and realizes that he gave no thought whatsoever to casting a Silencing charm and that Harry has just heard him come.

Loudly.

In under two minutes.

The back of his head thunks against the door. Draco casts a quick cleaning charm.

“I fell over,” he croaks out.

“I did too,” Harry calls. “In the shower, just now.”

Fucking prat.

Misery twists his face as he regains his breath. Trust Potter to not even let him coast through one humiliation without commenting on it. The only thing for it is to brazen it out.

“Well, I hope it was as good for you as it was for me,” Draco says nonchalantly. “Never came so hard in my life.”

There’s a heavy pause. “You haven’t fucked me, yet,” Harry says.

Draco shuts his eyes again.

He’d always wondered if he’d go to Hell. He just didn’t imagine Hell looking like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramping up the angst here. Please don't murder me. :D

Harry is sitting at his table the next morning in his jeans and t-shirt from the previous day when Draco finally comes in. He glances up from the newspaper he’s sifting through. “Good sleep?”

Draco’s relieved; they’re not going to talk about it again, then. He shrugs and yawns. “I hadn’t slept in a while,” he concedes. “You?”

“Not much, actually. Guess I didn’t need it after you dosed me,” Harry says. He sounds more casual than angry about it. “I got up early and started reading. This newspaper is bizarre. One minute they love me, and the next they’re calling me insane.”

“What are you reading about?”

“I’m in fifth year,” Harry says, then pauses. “I mean, that boy Cedric died and now everyone is calling me a lunatic.”

“That was fifth year,” Draco confirms, pouring the tea that Spark has left for him under a stasis charm. He joins Harry at the table. “Rita Skeeter loved you that year. I gave her several interviews, myself.”

“Nice of you,” Harry says, eyebrows lifting. “You’d be the anonymous source that says that none of the students want to say anything, but they’re all afraid of me, then?”

“That was me,” Draco admits cheerfully, taking his first heavenly sip. “I think I also said you were dangerously unstable, and given to hexing students in the corridors if they looked at you wrong.”

“Yeah, I read that,” Harry says wryly. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by it. “But I was right, though. Right? Voldemort had come back.”

Draco wills himself not to flinch at the name, still, after so long. “You were right. He ended up living in my family home for almost two years.”

“Wow.”

Draco snorts at the massive understatement and continues drinking his tea. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, I made myself something, I hope that’s okay,” he adds, a little timidly.

“Of course. You could have asked Spark, though.”

“It’s okay. I like cooking; I’ve always been good at it,” Harry says blithely. It makes sense; Draco remembers reading stories about Harry’s upbringing, but decides not to comment on it.

He summons Spark and requests breakfast, tucking into his runny eggs and beans on toast—comfort food—as soon as she delivers it, leaving Harry to his papers. When he’s finished, he taps Harry on the hand, and the other man looks up, a bit unfocused.

“Yeah?”

“I need to go out and do a few things and pick you up some clothing. Is there anything you need while I’m out?”

“I don’t think so.” Harry looks uncertain. “Ron and Hermione said they were coming back today, and that Auror guy Robards is delivering Morty. Maybe something current to read? You don’t have a TV here. I’ll pay you back for whatever, I have money at home.”

“You have rather a lot of money here, too, actually,” Draco informs him through another yawn.

“I do?”

“Whole vaults full of gold, if I’m correct.”

“Really?” Harry looks equal parts curious and dismayed. “Rich and famous. The California dream.”

“Not yours, though?” Draco smirks.

“Lots of money would be nice, I guess,” Harry says. “And maybe being famous for something you chose to do. But I guess it feels sort of depressing to me; people seem to love me for the fact that someone was trying to kill me all the time. I’ve always—for what I can remember—just wanted to be… normal. Happy.”

“That sounds just like him. You,” Draco corrects. “I always just thought it was an act—who doesn’t want to be famous and respected?—but… I’ll pick up some books for you. I’m guessing you like Muggle things?”

“Muggle?”

“Non-wizarding.”

“Oh.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thanks. I like biographies.”

“All right. Electricity doesn’t… blend well… with magic, or I’d bring you a television. But if you need a break from that while I’m gone,” Draco says, gesturing to the newspapers, “my office has a lot of books. Some fiction, too, although it’s magic.”

“I saw them yesterday. Thanks,” Harry says. He makes a little face. “I’m, er, sorry about last night. I probably shouldn’t have made fun.”

Draco ignores the sudden heat in his cheeks. “I probably should have used a Silencing Charm.” He swallows. “It’s just…”

Harry’s hand covers his own, warm and sure. “I know. I mean, you’re not alone in—in this weird thing between us. But I heard what you said. I don’t want to push you and have you to get in any trouble or be in any danger.”

Draco looks at Harry, so calm and completely himself, even though he doesn’t know who that is, and wonders if the greatest danger of having him here is to Draco’s heart.

***

Draco visits his mother and leaves Azkaban feeling lighter than he has in years; although he didn’t mention finding Harry—who knew how long it would take for his memory to return—he was able to tell her for the first time that he might be able to get her out soon, and the hope on her face made the trip completely worth it.

He heads to Diagon Alley and picks up a mix of clothing for Harry; jeans and shirts and trousers and robes, in case he wants to try them later. He goes a little mad with his purchases, sure that everything he sees will look good. Then he shrinks his bags and ventures out into Muggle London to find a bookshop.

When he returns home, hours later, he’s loaded with packages—he was unable to shrink the books in front of the Muggle shopkeeper—and it’s a relief once he Apparates home to be able to levitate them behind him.

Ron and Hermione are there, sitting in the kitchen with Harry who has a reddish-gold snake coiled around his neck, and they’re all laughing together. Draco hesitates in the doorway, feeling as though he’s imposing; it’s such a strange sight: The Golden Trio sitting together happily for the first time in years. People would pay an absolute fortune for a picture like this, Draco thinks ruefully.

Harry sees him and his face lights up. “Draco!”

Draco nods cordially to Ron and Hermione and smiles back at Harry. “I got some things for you.” He flicks his wand and the packages land, neatly stacked, on the counter.

“Thanks!” His eyes are bright with mirth, his grin wide. “You know, you don’t look like a ferret at all, to me.”

Draco shoots Ron and Hermione a glare and they laugh again, which makes him feel oddly satisfied. “To be fair, that teacher was actually a Death Eater in disguise.” He sniffs. “And I’ve grown into my face.”

“I’ll say you have,” Harry says, a touch lower.

Ron groans. “I didn’t hear that.”

Draco clears his throat. “So, this is what you’ve been doing all day? Gossiping about me?”

Harry looks offended. “Of course not!” He chuckles a little. “We’ve been gossiping about me, mostly. Ron’s going to teach me to play chess. He says it was our thing.”

“He’s lying,” Draco says snottily. “I used to watch you two play over lunch. His _thing_ was trouncing you at every available opportunity.”

“You used to watch me?” Harry says, looking delighted.

“You watched me, too,” Draco grumbles.

“That’s right, Harry,” Hermione says, surprising him. “You were just as obsessed with him. Always sure he was up to something.”

An awkward silence falls.

“To be fair, you were right,” Draco finally says lightly, turning to the packages. He swirls his wand and most of them fly off toward Harry’s bedroom, and then he begins unshrinking the rest. “Here. Books.”

Harry stands and begins going through the bags. “God, thanks, really. No offense, guys, but if I’m stuck in here reading nothing but crap about myself, I’ll go nuts.”

“Yeah, you never did like it when people wrote about you,” Ron says.

“Guess I still don’t,” Harry mumbles, flipping through a biography of a famous surfer. “I keep getting offended, like I know what they’re talking about. Plus, there’s all this stuff about my folks…” He absently reaches up and touches his forehead.

“So, have you made any progress?” Draco asks, directing the question to Hermione. She gives him a grateful little smile, but Ron is the one who responds.

“Well, we have one of the Unspeakables scheduled to come over next week. We tried to get him back right away—Kingsley is making you a top priority—but he’s in Australia right now finishing up working on a child who’d been Imperiused and Obliviated. It’s rough for kids; they haven’t had their memories long enough, so when they get taken…. His name’s Rudy, and he’s been doing this for a long time—he focuses mainly on memory and memory spells, and they’re making him sign a non-disclosure agreement before they pull him in so there’ll be no way for him to discuss who he’s working on, or even hint at it.

“We also contacted the Headmistress and let her know the situation. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her speechless before. One of our ideas was that if we brought Harry back to Hogwarts, the magic might reverse itself. Or it could just jog his memory, maybe,” Ron adds, thoughtfully.

“Could that be dangerous?” Draco asks. “Putting him back where he disappeared?”

“Well, people have been sleeping there for years,” Ron explains. “They had our room in the Tower closed off the following year, but the magic in the castle stabilized, and there were no other disappearances, so we’re relatively certain he’ll be safe.”

“Anyway,” Hermione says, “That’s a sort of last-resort option. The readings that we took yesterday are exactly the same as those we took five years ago, with the exception of the spikes in Harry’s magic. We’re going to surround him with things he knows and loves and hope that he starts remembering things on his own.” She pauses, considering. “It might be a good idea to teach him a few rudimentary spells, too; I imagine his magic is quite ready to be unleashed, which can be dangerous in and of itself.”

Harry looks up from his book. “Oh! I know a couple already, right, Draco?” He picks up his wand from the table. _“Nox!”_

All of the lights blitz out again.

“Um, maybe with less force next time, Harry,” Draco says, voice strained, as Hermione mumbles a quick incantation to reverse the spell.

Ron sounds like he wants to laugh. “You never did do anything halfway, did you, mate?”

“Oh, shut it, Ron,” Harry says affectionately.  Ron doesn’t react except for a pinkening in his cheeks that shows his pleasure, and he pats Harry roughly on the shoulder.

Hermione cuts into the moment by giving a little hiss, clutching at her stomach. “Shit!”

Harry looks astonished. “You don’t…”

Her face eases. “I don’t what?”

“I was going to say that you don’t curse,” Harry murmurs, looking at her closely. “Do you?”

“Well, I didn’t before,” she agrees with a smug look. “But I’ve got two months left of being kicked from the inside, so you’d better get used to hearing it.”

Harry gnaws on his lower lip for a minute, sending a distracted glance toward Draco, who thoughtlessly steps forward to rest his hands on Harry’s shoulders and give them a squeeze, massaging them lightly. The little snake around his neck uncoils and looks at him curiously.

“It’s just so weird,” Harry finally says. “It’s like, when I’m not thinking about it, I just know things about you guys, even if I don’t know you. I don’t remember how I learned that you’re rather bossy, Hermione, or that you sometimes start to sneeze when you laugh, Ron.” As he speaks, his accent begins coming through and he touches his forehead again with a gentle hand.

“Harry,” Hermione whispers. “Your scar.”

“I can feel it.”

“It’s Malfoy,” Ron says suddenly. “Malfoy, keep doing that.”

Draco pauses in his ministrations on Harry’s shoulder, and then resumes. He feels the urge to slide his hands into all of the messy black hair he’s looking down on, but instead he applies more pressure with his thumbs, kneading deep into the muscles between Harry’s shoulder blades. Harry gives a soft groan.

“Close your eyes, Harry,” Hermione says, her voice still barely a breath. She takes his hand. “Think for a minute.”

“You… you like books,” Harry says, slow and quiet. “You love to learn things. I’ve never met anyone as smart as you. You cried in my arms once when we were cold and we slept like that. I used to wonder why I couldn’t fall in love with you. Because you were so beautiful, and so kind, and you took such good care of me.”

Hermione whimpers and tears spill down her cheeks. She puts a hand over her trembling mouth. Draco’s eyes ache with tears as well, but he swallows hard against them. The little snake begins to slide down Harry’s arm and he starts a little, pulling away from Draco’s hands.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says shakily. “I didn’t—I don’t—“

“I used to wonder that, too,” Ron says with a tender look at Hermione. “Why it wasn’t you and her instead of me and her. You told me you think of her like a sister.”

There’s a silence as Harry digests this, and Draco walks back to the counter, leaning against it so he can see Harry’s face. Harry looks rattled and a little lost and when he speaks again, his accent is gone. “I guess I do, when I think about it.”

“Should we try that again?” Ron ventures. “Maybe with me?”

“I’m not giving you a shoulder-rub, Weasley. Ron,” Draco says.

Ron snorts, giving him an almost-approving look. “Obviously. I wouldn’t trust you not to sink your claws in,” he says with one corner of his mouth tilting up. “But, maybe…”

“It’s gone,” Harry says before he can finish. “It was already going away before he stopped.”

“Yeah, your scar started to fade about halfway through,” Ron supplies.

Hermione is still crying a little and she gives a hiccupping little laugh. “Damn it, Harry. You shouldn’t have done that to a pregnant lady,” she says. She wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her robes, and Draco silently hands her a handkerchief. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and he doesn’t know whether she’s saying it to him or Harry.

They leave shortly after, Hermione claiming that she needs to rest because of the baby, but the tension and longing in the air has gotten almost tangible and it eases noticeably on their parting.

“I didn’t mean to make her cry,” Harry says, looking younger and a little wretched. He pulls off his glasses and starts rubbing at his eyes. Draco lays a hand on top of his and Harry turns it so his palm is facing up; he links their fingers.

“Not all tears are bad,” he says. He thinks of how hard he sobbed after the Dark Lord was vanquished, hiding in an alcove deep in the bowels of Hogwarts, such overwhelming relief filling him it was almost painful. “Anyway, I’m not surprised you never fell in love with her,” he goes on. “You don’t remember yet what her teeth used to look like, and her hair before she got it under control.”

This startles Harry into a laugh which pierces Draco with its sweetness.

Morty takes the moment to introduce himself to Draco fully, slithering over to where their hands are connected and beginning a slow climb up his arm. He tries not to visibly cringe from the sensation of his scales, smooth and almost fluid. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but he’s not very fond of snakes. “He, um, doesn’t bite, right?”

Harry smiles. “She. And no. She’s a corn snake. They’re pretty harmless.”

“Does she, ah, talk to you?”

“She’s a _snake_ , Malfoy,” Harry deadpans, and then looks bemused at himself. “Draco. Sorry.”

Draco feels something precariously close to a giggle escape him. The damn thing tickles. To say nothing of the fluttering in his chest that began when Harry had called him Malfoy, warmly and with no provocation.

“So you can’t understand her?”

Harry looks at him strangely. “Are there magical talking snakes, too? No, I can’t understand her. She’s just a friendly little thing that I saw in a pet shop one day. Here, relax, she’s not going to bite you,” he adds, reaching out to stroke her. He starts hissing gutturally at her and she perks up, her black little eyes bright.

“But, um, you talk to her?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry says as if he’s talking to an extremely slow-witted child. “You’re supposed to talk to your pets. She likes it.”

Draco can see she does. He could swear she’s almost smiling, perched on his shoulder, her head raised attentively in Harry’s direction.

“But you’re talking to her in Parseltongue. You’re hissing at her.”

“What? No I’m not!”

“I swear you are,” Draco says. “You were a Parselmouth, before… Someone who can speak to snakes. Have you always done that?”

Harry looks uncertainly at Morty and hisses something again. She dips her head and slides down Draco’s arm, then begins to climb back up Harry’s.

“Holy shit,” he blurts, wide eyed.

“Did you tell her to do that?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I always just thought she was… extremely well behaved.”

“Observant as ever, Harry.”

***

By the time the Unspeakable shows up nearly a week later, they’ve managed to establish a little routine. They generally wake up within a few minutes of each other and Draco lounges around like a dead person until he has his tea, while Harry makes breakfast in his boxers and a t-shirt and Draco eyes him secretly. He’d sworn up and down that Draco’s runny egg and beans-on-toast combination looked revolting, but Draco convinces him to try it on the third day and won’t be surprised if Harry makes extra from now on.

After that, Harry dives into his newspapers or Hermione’s diaries—any really, Draco can only be grateful it’s not him partaking in that task, as there are about a thousand of them—and Draco will leave him alone to take meetings with business acquaintances or visit Gringott’s or hole up in his study to work until lunch.

Lunch is when Harry starts plying him with questions; often, the information Draco has is full of holes and he’s confronted on multiple occasions with the gaps of his own knowledge about a man he’d been obsessed with for years, but he fills in where he can, supplying the classes Harry took, the teachers he was close to. Talking about Dumbledore is particularly rough-going, as he’d had to explain his role in the man’s demise and see Harry look at him with a sad sort of compassion that made him feel ill.

He explains Quidditch and Lockhart and spellwork and Snape and the Sorting Hat and sometimes, while Draco is talking—without even touching him—Harry’s scar will brighten. Little memories return—the colors of Gryffindor, a girl with red hair—but he doesn’t seem to feel any particular connection to them, and he never has one with Draco in it. Draco tries not to feel irritated by that.

He tries to teach Harry spells, too, but there’s simply too much pent-up magic inside of him and Draco calls a halt to training when Harry attempts to levitate a quill and ends up slamming every piece of furniture in Draco’s study into the ceiling with the force of his casting.

After lunch is when Ron and Hermione visit. Draco usually finds an excuse to leave the three alone for a while, despite Harry’s protests, and it’s here that seems to have the most success when Draco returns: Harry’s accent comes back and his scar burns silver and he’ll talk about something that he _does_ feel connected to, something related to one of them, and Draco tries not to feel jealous of the kind of intimacy that goes so deep that you know a person when you can’t remember who they are.

Then Ron and Hermione will either join them for dinner or leave them to themselves, and this is Draco’s favorite part of the day. They eat and Harry will talk about California or his dreams and ask Draco about his businesses and give input (he’s surprisingly adept) or what it was like growing up with such blond hair, or if he ever had any pets. This is when they get to know each other away from magic and Hogwarts rivalries and the War. This is when they touch.

It starts small; Harry lifts his legs up onto the couch one night and his toes rub into the side of Draco’s thigh in entreaty until Draco sighs and puts them in his lap, digging his knuckles into the arches while Harry stares at him with dark eyes and a tempting smile. He retaliates by toeing off his own shoes and plopping a foot into Harry’s lap, and they sit like that for the remainder of the night, heels nestled dangerously close to each other’s groins.

The next night Harry is reading a historical biography when he wanders into the sitting room, and he trails a hand over the back of Draco’s neck, leaving a warm ghosting on his skin and making the hair there rise.

Sometimes they sit close together as they read or talk; twice Harry has dozed off against Draco’s shoulder and Draco sits for far too long before waking him, listening to the steady inhale and exhale, smelling the spice of his hair, and generally going crazy with the need to wake him up by sucking his cock. Instead he shakes Harry awake and leads him to his room, lingering in the doorway while Harry yawns and shucks out of his pants, tumbling into bed and mumbling goodnight.

And Draco finds out he was right; you can lose your mind from wanking too much.

Because all he thinks about anymore is Harry; fucking him or getting fucked by him, it blurs together in his mind as a physical thrum of energy that can’t be acted on and can’t be ignored. He _wants_ him, wants to see those eyes blasted with lust, wants to sink his tongue into his mouth, wants to feel Harry fill him up with his fingers and tongue and leaking cock.

Near the end of the week when the Unspeakable arrives, Draco is twitchy and nervous while Harry remains completely calm about their dynamic, acting as though he can ignore the whole fucking thing—as if he doesn’t rub the inside of Draco’s thigh while they curl up on the couch together, or inhale deeply against his neck before he falls asleep.

Draco hasn’t wanted to kill him this much since sixth year.

Rudy is old, even older than Dumbledore was, Draco suspects. His eyes are rheumy with age and most of his hair is gone but for a few tufts of pristine white on the top of his head. His face is heavily lined and puffy, but he has a sort of twinkle in his expression, a relaxation that Draco is relieved to see as he interviews Harry and then begins taking his own diagnostics, twirling his wand in complex motions over Harry’s right hand. Draco is holding Harry’s left, and Rudy thought whatever connection they had may help. Ron and Hermione sit opposite them in chairs, with Shacklebolt.

“And have you been having dreams?” Rudy asks lightly.

“I used to,” Harry admits slowly. “When I first woke up. The ones I have now make more sense.”

“And what were your dreams of?”

“Small dark places. I still don’t like them. I thought it made sense because I can’t remember anything—feeling trapped, you know. And sometimes I dreamed of looking in a fancy mirror and knowing exactly who I was.” His voice comes out a whisper. “And I dreamed I could fly. And I dreamed of fire.”

Bumps break out on Draco’s skin. Whatever Rudy is doing with his wand is causing Harry’s head to lull, relaxing into the sofa behind him. His voice sounds vaguely drugged and perfectly content, and his accent is strong and crisp.

“And what of before that?” Rudy murmurs. “Before you woke up?”

“Mist. A train station. An old man. A bed.”

Hermione gives a little gasp and Rudy shoots her a warning look.

“And who was the old man?” Rudy prompts when Harry has been silent for too long.

“I don’t know. But I think… I think he loved me. I think he hurt me.” As tranquil as Harry seems, face lax and eyes unfocused, his grip on Draco’s hand remains tight. His scar begins to appear and disappear, like the flickering of a lamp.

“Let’s talk about when you woke up. What did you feel?”

“Lonely,” Harry murmurs. “I was so lonely. I missed them.”

“Missed who?” “My friends,” he says simply. “Ron and Hermione. Ginny. Oh, god, I wanted her so much. But I didn’t know.” He’s taken on a pleading tone. “They were my anchors,” he continues.

“Your anchors?” Rudy presses.

“The people I knew would always be there in my life. Like Malfoy,” he adds, and Draco just barely manages not to drop his hand. “Meant to be part of my life, somehow. Even when Ron left, I knew he would come back. But they were gone.” He sounds unbearably sad.

“Was that the only thing you felt? Loneliness?”

Harry’s face tenses; eases. “No. I felt relief.”

“Why were you relieved?” The wand above Harry’s hand is expelling a fine blue mist which seems to soak into Harry’s skin before coming back out in a murky black color. It travels up Rudy’s arm and into his ear.

“Because of what Ron said.”

Ron makes a strangled noise before his catches himself, looking completely stunned. He shakes his head at the rest of them, red hair flying about his face, and shrugs, bewildered.

“What did Ron say?”

Harry grunts. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Rudy insists gently.

“No.”

“All right, Harry,” Rudy says smoothly. “Let’s talk about what you remember now.”

“Am I the Chosen One?” he asks, voice small.

Even Rudy looks surprised. “You are, Harry. You were.”

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s head snaps up, from where she’s buried it in Ron’s shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wet. She glances at Rudy and he gives her a cautious nod.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Will you hate me if I fall in love with Malfoy?” Draco’s jaw drops open; his face heats and he sucks in a panicked breath. He loosens his hold on Harry’s free hand.

Hermione seems just as startled. She’s darting looks back and forth between them, shrewd and speculative, and then her face softens. “No, Harry. Why would you ever think I could hate you because of someone you loved?”

“Ron would.”

Ron clears his throat. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“They tortured you,” Harry says, steady and slow. It’s like listening to music on the wireless after a magical dampener has been used. “He was there.”

“He threw up,” Hermione says, looking directly at Draco with something like compassion as he shrivels inside. “He couldn’t watch, and then they made him, and he threw up.”

“Oh.” A little sigh escapes him. “That’s good, then.”

“Harry,” Rudy says mildly. “Would you like to be who you are again?”

There’s a lengthy pause. Harry’s eyes close and his brows knit together. “I can’t be, it’s been too long. He was seventeen,” he finally says, certainty in his voice. “But I do want to be me again.”

“And by ‘me,’ who do you mean?”

“Harry James Potter.”

“Good, Harry,” Rudy says approvingly, as though talking to a child. “That’s very good. I want you to hold quite still now and think of something you enjoy, all right?”

“All right,” Harry says drowsily.

Rudy turns to the rest of them. “I can’t find any indication of an outside memory charm being cast; I think you were correct in your assumption that he did this to himself. I’ve removed as much of the dark spots in his memory as I can, but he’s either very good at Occlumency, or he’s simply not ready yet to face his past,” Rudy says regretfully. “Mr. Weasley-Granger, do you remember what you said to him after the final battle?”

“I—I… no.” Ron looks scared. “I can’t have said anything to him, can I? We walked together to the Gryffindor dorms,” he says, face screwed up in thought. “He mentioned ‘Mione, how he was glad he wouldn’t have to play interference anymore and we laughed and chatted a bit and he was tired and I was tired and I wanted to see ‘Mione—she was setting up a room for us to… ah… talk in. He asked me to wake him up by four, gave me a hug, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“I see.” Rudy looks back at Harry, whose mouth is sagging open. It looks as if he’s on the verge of a snore. “This isn’t something I can fix. But!” he adds with a more cheerful note, “I can do this.”

He pokes at Harry’s abdomen with the tip of his wand and narrows his eyes, staring at his wand point, and twists his wrist back and forth. There’s a sudden heavy shudder around them, and Draco can feel Harry’s hand vibrate, get hotter, and then Rudy’s wand glows like a miniature sun, so luminous that Draco looks away. There’s a whooshing sound, like flying at high speeds and then absolute silence.

Rudy is smiling. “Poor boy. Pent up magic. Probably would have killed someone if he’d tried the wrong spell. But it’s all right now, I’ve alleviated some of the pressure for him. Should take to re-learning quickly. Mighty powerful wizard, he is.”

Draco exchanges a disbelieving look with Ron, of all people, who nods after a minute and answers. “Um, yeah. Guess he is.”

“Fine boy, fine boy,” Rudy mutters. He stands and straightens his robes, then stretches, leaning to the side; some of his bones crack. “There’s a deep goodness in his magic.”

“We know,” Hermione whispers.

“Well, he’ll likely be tired for a while. Best just let him sleep after this; these things usually take a lot out of a wizard.” He limps over to shake the Minister’s hand.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else to be done?” Shacklebolt asks.

“Not until he’s ready,” the old man confirms. “But I think he’ll do the rest—you heard him, he wants it. That’s the most important part in untangling a self-cast spell like this. May take a bit of time.”

Rudy leaves by Floo, followed soon after by the Minister. Draco sighs and pries his hand out of Harry’s, then gently removes his glasses and levers him into a lying-down position. Harry smiles in his sleep, curling his legs up against his stomach and Draco aches for a moment, swamped with tenderness, watching him. A shine of silver catches his eye and he looks closer.

“What’s this scar?”

Hermione waddles over. “What scar? His scar faded again.”

“No, that.” He points to Harry’s hand and kneels to get a closer look. “It’s words.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron gusts out, joining them to look.

The words say, _I must not tell lies_ , and Ron and Hermione looks suddenly ill.

“What is it?”

“Umbridge did that to him. Blood quill, fifth year,” Hermione supplies, voice unsteady.

 _Fuck_. Draco thinks of that toady old bitch and the delight he’d taken in helping her. He wishes with a sudden savagery that he knew where she was now.

Hermione’s hand on his arm jerks him out of his reverie. “Draco. Come on.”

He follows them into the kitchen where Spark sets out some cheese and crackers and fruit that nobody touches. Ron’s face his drawn, eyes haunted. He breaks the silence. “I really don’t know what I could’ve said to him.”

“Hush,” Hermione says, pouring tea into china cups. She hands one to Draco, then one to Ron, and sips at her own. “It’s not what you said, I’m sure. Nothing to hurt him. This happened because something inside him deemed it necessary.”

“He called me his anchor,” Draco mumbles, clutching his cup tighter to warm his cold hands. It feels strange to talk to Harry’s friends like this, but he has to know. “What do you think that meant?”

“Well, you are,” Hermione says, surprised. “In that way that we all are. People that have had an impact on his life and seem to be entwined in it; people who he associates with the development of his identity. You two were like that in school.”

Draco gives a bitter laugh. “We weren’t friends.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I _know_. Goodness. But you helped shape him in a lot of ways, and I think he did for you too. The loathing and fascination you held for each other… It’s like when animals imprint on each other. There’s a recognition, there. Maybe that’s why he responds to you.”

“Are we just not gonna talk about the part where Harry said he wants to fall in love with Malfoy?” Ron mutters, and Draco’s cheeks burn.

Love. Harry had said _love_.

“No, we’re not,” Hermione says primly. “That’s between them.”

“But!”

“No, Ron,” she says severely. She pats Draco’s forearm like a mother. “As long as Draco is good to him.”

Draco finds himself nodding in the smallest of gestures, as though some part of him wants to agree although he doesn’t know exactly what he’s agreeing to. But Hermione seems satisfied, and they finish their tea.

***

Draco almost doesn’t wake Harry up. He looks peaceful in his slumber, glasses off and face slightly pink. His hair is tangled on the couch cushion like a black cloud and Draco feels the same urge to sink his hands into it—if for no other reason than for an attempt at giving it some order.

Instead, he crouches down and jostles Harry’s shoulder. Sleepy green eyes blink up at him. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Draco whispers. “I thought you might be more comfortable in bed.”

“Mmmhmm.” Harry takes the hand Draco offers and pulls himself off the couch, following slowly behind him down the hall. “What happened?”

“We can talk about it in the morning.”

“M’kay.” He yawns and disappears into his room. A few minutes later, Draco hears the shower turn on and heads into his own washroom, turning on the faucets and stepping under the spray.

He soaps up and washes himself thoroughly, hand lingering over the partial erection that had started when Harry had blinked into his eyes, and Draco had felt his warm breath on his face. A few gentle pulls and he’s fully hard, and Draco groans slightly, reaching down to fondle his testicles, then sliding his hand back up to his cock. His squeezes it, teasing the foreskin back, and circles the head with his thumb, resting his free hand on the cold tile wall for support as his limbs get loose and heavy.

He thinks of Harry in the shower, too, possibly touching himself; it makes Draco shudder and his hand tightens almost angrily in its movements. Why’d Harry have to say that thing about love? As if he’d actually want Draco when all of this is over and he’s back to being himself?

He fists himself roughly, hand flying over the length of his shaft, and imagines tasting Harry, swallowing his cock while the Savior himself begs and pants helplessly above him. Draco’s balls draw up tightly against his body, tingling, and his hand moves faster until he comes, gasping and spurting sticky fluid onto the shower wall.

He finishes his shower and dresses for bed, feeling wrung out and somehow still frustrated. Sleep does not come easily, but his mind finally drifts off after midnight only to be startled into awareness not much later. He instinctively reaches for his wand, his eyes struggling to focus in the dark of his room, when Harry murmurs, “It’s just me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Draco brushes his hair back and peers up at Harry’s outlined form. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Harry says, and he sounds odd. “I’m sorry. But can I—“ He makes a gesture towards Draco’s bed.

Draco’s eyes widen but he doesn’t, not for a second, think about saying no. There’s something vulnerable and exposed to Harry’s stance, as though just walking in here and asking is painful and necessary in equal measure. Draco scoots over and twitches down the bedcovers, wordlessly inviting Harry to join him.

Harry gives a sigh and climbs in, covering himself and sliding down against the pillows. His feet are chilly and automatically seek the warmth of Draco’s own, and he sighs when they touch. “Thanks. I just—I woke up and I suddenly couldn’t be alone anymore.”

“It’s quite all right,” Draco says, voice stiff.

Harry huffs a rueful laugh. “It’s obviously not. But—thank you. The stuff I said…”

“You remember it?”

“Yes.” Harry pauses and rolls to face him. Draco can see him more clearly now, inches away; Harry’s face is open and trusting and sad. “I even somehow heard what Rudy was saying about how it’s my fault.”

“He didn’t say ‘fault,’ Harry,” Draco feels obliged to point out.

“It amounts to the same thing,” Harry says, wistful. He chews on his lower lip. Draco has never wished to be someone else’s teeth before; it’s an interesting sensation. “When you touched me, that night at the hotel—you felt familiar. And I wasn’t used to anything feeling familiar, not in that bone-deep way.”

“When I touched you?”

“You put your hands on my hips and squeezed tight,” Harry explains. He gives a half-smile. “You know. From behind.”

Draco’s heart thunders. “I once rode behind you on a broom.”

“It smelled like charred flesh and ash, didn’t it,” Harry says softly. “There was fire there.”

“Yes.”

“I keep getting glimpses,” he whispers. “Like pieces of a puzzle with no real background, or a movie that skips around while you watch it. Who’s Ginny?”

Draco swallows hard. “She was your girlfriend. Ron’s sister.”

Harry rolls onto his back again and stares sightlessly up at Draco’s bed hangings. “Oh. Is she still alive?”

“Yes, I believe so. I don’t know what she’s doing now, though.”

“Okay.” Harry finds Draco’s hand under the sheets and gives it a tight squeeze. “Thank you again for letting me come in.”

“You always can,” Draco murmurs.

Harry closes his eyes. After a moment, Draco follows suit. When he wakes up in the morning, he’s alone.

***

After that night, more often than not, Harry joins Draco in bed. Sometimes he shows up right after his shower and they get under the covers together; other times it won’t be until the early-morning hours that Draco will feel the covers shift, and then the telltale dip in the mattress that indicates Harry’s arrival.

They don’t talk about it; in fact, it’s one of the few things they don’t talk about, as everything else seems fair game. But Harry begins staying in bed until Draco wakes up and he often finds Harry curled up behind him, knees bent into the angle of his own, breath warm on the back of his neck, erection firm and pressing into the crevice of his arse. They disentangle and get up, and it just… _is._

With Rudy’s—and Shacklebolt’s—permission, Draco begins teaching Harry simple wand work and, it’s as Rudy said: Harry picks up on it like a mermaid in the waters of the Great Lake.  In a matter of two weeks, he’s able to conjure small objects, transfigure live ones, and holds his wand as though it’s an extension of his own arm. He can do warming charms and stasis charms and knows a full array of defensive spells, to absolutely no one’s surprise, although he still can’t seem to conjure a Patronus. Even Hermione is impressed with his accomplishment, although she does feel the need to point out matter-of-factly that it’s due to the fact that somewhere, deep inside, he already knows the spells.

Still, he keeps practicing, and amasses an overwhelming collection of complex spells that he can do in no time at all.

When Harry’s birthday arrives, it’s with little fanfare. Ron and Hermione visit and bring gifts—a practice Snitch, which Harry holds tentatively in his hand as its wings flutter against him, and a giant basket of home-made treacle tarts from Ron’s mother (who’s been told Ron and Hermione are having a get-together), which Harry dives into with gusto and declares to be the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Draco waits for them to leave, wipes a crumb off of Harry’s chin with his thumb, and murmurs, “Do you want _my_ present?”

Harry’s eyes glow at him; he licks his lips. “Is it what I think it is?”

Draco’s heart swerves and clenches. “Probably not,” he manages. “But I think you’ll like it.”

“You didn’t have to, you know,” Harry says softly. “Just, er, knowing my birthday was more than I ever thought I’d get.”

“I wanted to.”

He’s thought about it in the several days preceding and knows he could get in some trouble if they’re caught, but Harry has been complaining rather often lately of being stuck in the flat and his restlessness makes him less than charming. Besides, Draco wants to see how far Harry’s repressed talents stretch.

He produces two brooms from where he’s been hiding them behind the clothes in his armoire, and Harry’s face goes tight with apprehension and curiosity.

“Really?”

“Really. I’ll cast a Disillusionment charm on your face. It probably won’t work as well with the speed, but at the height we’ll be at, I don’t expect anyone to see us, anyway.” He pauses. “You’d like to get out, right?”

“Well, sure, but…”

Draco slipped his best sneer on; it fits like a well-tailored robe. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes narrow at the challenge and he stands, grabbing one of the broomsticks. He twists it in his hands, then runs his fingers down the length of it as if to automatically check the quality of the broom. “You wish, Draco.”

Draco grins and Harry matches it with one of his own. They walk out onto Draco’s seldom-used patio, and he winces at the sight of two drooping plants on the balcony. The sun has just gone down and the breeze hits him in the face; it’s warm and subtle and sweet, perfect weather for flying. Harry holds still as Draco casts a quick, efficient Disillusionment Charm at him, and Harry’s features go blurry and confusing.

“Okay, if you see any other wizards flying, just don’t get too close; fly away if they approach you and we’ll head back,” Draco instructs. He mounts the broom. “You’ll kick off, like this,” he says, showing Harry and hovering in place, “and then just lean—“

“Got it,” Harry says, mimicking Draco’s actions. He kicks off from the patio, leans in, and shoots straight up.

Draco stares, as struck by Harry’s speed and agility as he ever has been. With a rueful laugh to himself, he pushes off and flies over to where Harry has slowed down, and begun circling in lazy twists above in the air.

When Draco catches up to him, Harry is beaming, his smile awestruck and happy.

“This is amazing!” he calls.

“Want to fly?”

“I want to fly!”

Draco sets the course, flying up farther so they won’t be seen by any stray Muggles as they pass through different layers of the city. He grips the broomstick in his fingers and pushes his shoulders down and forward, feeling exhilarated as they move faster, finally outside together. He executes a neat little roll and tries not to be impressed when Harry copies him and makes it look completely effortless.

Harry matches his speed and they intersect in a wild lash of wind; Draco can feel how fast Harry is flying as he passes. He gestures to Harry and Harry rockets back up to him, pulling short before they collide. His hands are sure around the broom handle, his seating perfect. His scar is pulsing visibly beneath his fringe.

“This is bloody brilliant!” 

Draco smiles. “Let’s circle around a bit.” '

Harry nods eagerly and follows Draco as he dips and turns and spins through the sky. His eyes are bright, his laugh joyful, and Draco just _loves_ him, dangerously and completely, so unreservedly he’s astonished at himself.

They fly through London as it gets darker and the city begins to light up beneath them and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but his hands begin to go numb from the cold of the altitude. He gestures to Harry, who signals his understanding, and they head back in the direction of Draco’s flat. Harry pulls up beside him and edges forward; his broom gains a few feet.

Vaguely offended, Draco hunches his shoulders and pulls his knees higher, pressing more speed into his trajectory and zipping ahead.  “This isn’t a race, Harry!”

“It’s always a race, Malfoy!” Harry calls, and Draco’s heart practically melts with delight.

They make it back to his patio—Harry wins by a few feet—and both hop neatly off their brooms. Harry is staring at him, eyes burning and intent.

“Well?” Draco demands when the silence goes on too long. “What did you—mmmff.”

Harry covers Draco’s mouth with his own, pressing and needy, hot and slick and _right._ Draco gasps, closing his arms around Harry’s waist and fisting his hands in the fabric of his t-shirt. Their brooms fall with a clatter as Harry pulls him tight, their bodies swaying with the force of the embrace. Draco can feel the hard ridge of Harry’s erection pressing insistently into his hip, and he adjusts his angle so that his own can meet it thrust for thrust. Harry groans into his mouth.

They stumble back into his sitting room, and it’s a proper snog, tongues clashing and teeth clicking. Harry wrestles him down onto the chaise lounge, nipping at his lips. He smells like sweat and sky and broom polish and Draco thrusts up against him helplessly, making a whimpering sound when Harry chuckles just under his ear and latches onto his neck, sucking hard as he rolls his hips downward. Draco snakes a hand in between them and palms the outline of Harry’s cock.

“Jesus, Draco,” he mumbles, voice low and impossibly rough. “Harder.”

Draco tightens his hand, stroking the hot length through the material of Harry’s jeans. He uses his free hand to fumble with Harry’s flies. “You like it hard, Potter? Or do you like to-”

Draco’s wards chime.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Harry shouts. His lips are red and swollen and his eyes are inky with lust. “Why!”

“That was incredibly English of you!” Draco blurts, impressed.

“Shut it!”

Draco can’t help himself; he laughs painfully and shoves Harry off of him as Ron steps through the Floo, then stops and cringes.

“I did not want to see this.”

Draco can only imagine how it looks. Harry is still half-kneeling over him and somehow without Draco realizing it, Harry has managed to both unbutton his shirt and unhook his belt, which lays open, above the tenting in his trousers. Harry’s shirt is hiked up as well, shoved under his armpits, and Draco watches as he smooths it down and glares at Ron.

“So, don’t,” he snaps. “Go away.”

Ron laughs for a second but then his laughter dies and his face grows serious. “We told my mum about you.”

Harry levers himself up and to the side, sitting heavily at the end of the couch. He sighs. “So? You said you were going to.” His breath is evening out. “But I thought you were going to see how much I’d remembered in a week or so.”

“We were.” He shifts awkwardly. “But it’s your birthday. My mum’s a bit… sentimental. Caught her crying this evening in the kitchen when we went to return her basket and it all just… came out.”

“Okay,” Harry says slowly. “I’m still not sure what—“

“Ginny was there,” Ron blurts. “I didn’t know, she’s traveling right now; plays Chaser for the Harpies. But she overheard and she’s having a shit-fit to see you.”

“Oh.”

Draco begins buttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers. His insides, so hot a moment ago, feel sculpted out of ice. Harry gives him an inscrutable look, then turns to Ron.

“So… should we go see them?”

Ron looks relieved. “D’you mind? I tried to explain to them, best I can, your… condition, but neither of them—Ginny especially—wants to wait. She _needs_ to see you, she says. And Malfoy’s wards wouldn’t let her in.”

Harry clears his throat. “Now?”

He glances at Draco, who nods. “I can wait here.”

“No,” Harry says quietly. “Please.”

Draco almost hates him then, that old familiar bitterness welling up inside at the automatic inclination everyone has to please Harry Potter. But he feels it too, and can’t bring himself to say no, even though it’s the place he least wants to be in the world.

Draco nods again. He tucks in his shirt and clasps his belt, and they walk over to the Floo together. Ron goes first, throwing down his powder and shouting, “The Burrow!” before disappearing into a resounding flash of green. Harry hesitates, then ducks in and does the same. Draco waits until the flash has disappeared and follows them, feeling that unpleasant tug and twist in his midsection.

Noise greets him, loud laughter and tears and Ron’s mother has her arms around Harry, patting him much like Hermione did, holding onto his chin, tears tracking down her cheeks. Harry’s face has softened, replaced with a sweet sort of yearning and awareness as he hugs her and he mumbles, “Molly, Molly,” into her shoulder. His voice sounds tight.

Then Ginevra Weasley shouts, “Harry!” and runs in, fire in her eyes, red hair flying, and without thought, Harry releases Mrs. Weasley and turns to her as she barrels toward him; he catches her running leap, swinging her up in his arms and pressing a deep kiss to her mouth as her arms wrap around his wide shoulders. He holds tight to her as they rock in place, even as Harry lowers her to the floor so her dangling toes are scraping it.

They look beautiful together, perfectly matched, and Draco hears himself make a small noise.

Ron is giving him a sympathetic look. “Malfoy,” he says quietly. “Wait.”

Draco shakes his head, throat aching, and steps back into the Floo to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! They had to!
> 
> It gets better, I promise. lol


	4. Chapter 4

Draco sits for a while, replaying the image in his head: Harry and Ginevra, tangled around one another, mouths locked and eyes closed, utter bliss on both their faces. He’s so goddamn angry at his own foolishness—because he’d known what would happen when Harry got his memory back, he’d tried to be so _careful_ not to let himself feel more for the giant arsehole than he should.

And yet he’d gotten sucked into it, too; that irrepressible, earnest charm that felt like it was solely for him. He’d actually thought…

Draco rubs at his eyes, which feel suspiciously swollen. He gets up and takes a quick, mechanical shower and then swallows a careful sip of Dreamless Sleep; less than he usually allows himself, when he uses it, because he wants to guzzle the whole potion so he can sleep until Harry has moved out of his flat and gone back to his own life.

Sleep comes quickly, aided by the draught, and it’s early in the morning—before sunrise—when he wakes up, alerted to Harry climbing in bed beside him by the rustle of his sheets.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice scratchy from sleep.

“Why did you go?”

“I thought I’d leave the lovely couple to their privacy,” Draco sneers.

“I wish you hadn’t,” Harry says calmly. “They kept me there for hours.”

A dozen responses roll through Draco’s head, but he remains silent.

“She’s engaged, you know,” Harry continues. “She’s really happy. Neville Longbottom? You know him, right?”

Surprise has Draco sitting up and truly looking at Harry. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed by this information, but Draco isn’t sure which part of what he’d said to focus on first.

“So… you don’t actually remember her?” Draco ventures carefully.

“Oh, no, I do,” he says, voice strangely grim. “It was like a light switched on: first Molly and then Ginny, and I knew them, better even than I know Hermione and Ron yet, way better than I know myself. I saw myself with them—or, them, with me.”

Draco switches tactics. “And Longbottom? He’s all right with you snogging her senseless?”

“I don’t know, he wasn’t there.” Green eyes flash to him in the darkness. “But you weren’t, were you?”

Draco doesn’t know if it’s the potion or the dark or the smell of the other man, but the word falls out. “No.”

“That’s why you left.”

“That’s why I left,” he says. “Watching you make a public fool of yourself isn’t the same delight it used to be.”

“Hey, I was making a private fool of myself,” Harry defends. He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

“For which part?” Draco asks bitterly. “Complicating my entire life? Trying to fuck me and then kissing the woman you love, minutes later, in front of me?”

“All of it.” He sighs. “And she’s not who I love.”

“From what I saw…”

“You saw habit,” Harry says flatly. “Instinct. It was like a magnet—some part of me has been fucking _craving_ her, for years. And I’m damn glad it happened.”

“How delightful for you,” Draco clips out.

“It was. It was a bloody fantastic kiss,” Harry says, sounding angry. “And it helped me remember some things. And I have a new scar from it.” He gestures toward his chest, paler now from being inside so often, but still broad and whipcord lean; there’s an oval shaped mark, warped as if the skin has melted. “And, most importantly, it made me realize that the person I’ve been wanting for five fucking years of darkness isn’t the same person anymore. And neither am I.”

Hope flares, unfair and brutal. “She’s getting married to Longbottom?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s why…”

“Jesus, Draco, don’t you _listen_? _She’s not the one I want_.”

“Why are you back here?” Draco says, voice brittle.

“Why do you think?” Harry leans forward and presses a soft kiss against his mouth and Draco, fool that he is, doesn’t push him away for it. It’s a simple moment of contact, over too quickly, and then Harry is staring at him, gaze sharp.

“I have to tell you something,” Draco mumbles nervously, drawing away.

Harry closes his eyes. “I swear, after all the obstacles I’ve encountered in fucking you, it’d better be worth it.” He takes a deep breath. “What.”

“I need something from you.” He feels shaky, broken. “When you get your memory back. I don’t want to—don’t want us to—“

“What do you need, Draco?” Harry prompts, more gently.

“My mother. She’s in Azkaban. Wizarding prison. For her part in the War. But she’s said for years that she helped you, in the end. That it was her aid that enabled you to defeat the Dark Lord. I need you to remember that, so she’ll be released. You had to know that, before…” he trails off and cringes as he waits for the loss of Harry’s warmth in the bed. But all he feels is a sudden stroke against his cheekbone, and when he opens his eyes, Harry is looking at him steadily, with a lopsided smile.

“I knew that,” he says softly. “It’s in practically every paper since I disappeared. Narcissa Malfoy, wife and mother of Death Eaters, babbling a crazy story about helping the Savior. It’s not selfish, Draco, to want me to help your mother if I can. Especially if she did what she says she did.

“I want you anyway.”

And Draco doesn’t know if it’s him or Harry who moves first in the silence that follows, but suddenly his mouth is covered by the other man’s, his tongue sinking in deeply and Harry fists one hand in Draco’s hair. Draco presses him down into the pillows and straddles him, nipping at his lips, feeling the hot stroke of Harry’s tongue against his own, bringing the taste of Firewhiskey and pastries and the sharp, metallic flavor of blood as he bites down too hard.

Harry jerks back. He flicks his tongue out over the tiny break in skin from Draco’s teeth and looks up at Draco; his pupils dilate, and he growls and flips them in one smooth motion, until Draco is beneath him, his thighs wrapped around Harry’s hips, and Harry’s cock is just where he wants it.

Harry lowers his head again and it becomes less of a kiss than a contest for domination; Harry uses his teeth and his tongue; he wrestles Draco’s wrists above his head and pins them there with one hand as he grinds his cock against Draco’s own.

“Wanted you for almost a fucking month now, Draco,” he snarls. Draco’s pajama pants are yanked down roughly, catching on his erection, and Draco aids him by lifting his hips so that Harry can shove them down to his thighs. Without releasing Draco’s wrists, Harry works his own boxers down, hooking them under his balls, and Draco looks down to catch his first sight of Harry’s cock.

It’s beautiful; long and thick and curving slightly to the left, blushing a deep red and springing out from a thatch of curling black hair at his groin. The foreskin is stretched over the head and pearly fluid seeps from the tip. Draco bucks his hips inelegantly, and Harry gives a dark laugh, reaching between them to catch both of their cocks in his free hand, calloused and large and sure, pressing them together in the tight circle of his fingers.

And oh, _oh_.

Draco almost sobs at the contact. The silky pre-come leaking from his cock mixes with Harry’s own, creating a smooth, honeyed texture. Harry strokes his fist up around them toward the crowns, swiping his thumb over their moist slits, and then pulls his hand back down to the roots. He pumps his hand, and leans down, blocking Draco’s view as he whispers into his ear.

“Wanna fuck you, Draco.”

“Yes, yes,” he gasps.

“Do you top or bottom?” His hand is still doing delicious things between them, a slow stroke and tug and twist over their two cocks, pressed securely together.

“I, _ah_! Usually top!” Draco’s hips are arching and lowering; the friction is unbelievably good.

“But you’ll bottom for me, won’t you?” Harry mutters into his ear, confident and filthy. “This time, you will? You want my cock deep inside you, don’t you, Malfoy?”

“Gods, _yes_ ,” he groans, unaware of how deeply true it is until this moment. He needs to feel Potter parting him and filling him up. His buttocks clench as he strains into Harry’s hand and he feels his balls draw up tight. “M’going to—“

Harry slows his hand, loosening it cruelly. “Not yet. Don’t come yet.”

“Harry, please!” Draco has never begged like this. Never once thought he would do it for Harry Potter, of all people. But there’s the distinct edge of a desperate whine to his voice and Harry’s breath in his ear becomes a chuckle that sounds like a promise.

“Want you in my mouth first,” Harry grits out. He releases Draco’s wrists and their cocks and Draco mourns the loss of that hot, tight hand, even as Harry thrusts his hips, his cock sliding sinfully against Draco’s, before clambering downwards.

He pauses at Draco’s chest, nosing one of his tightened nipples before scraping it lightly with his teeth and giving it a gentle suck, which sends spikes of pleasure directly to Draco’s groin. He reaches out and pinches the other, rolling it between two fingertips and Draco groans, cursing. “Get the fuck on with it, Potter!” He feels Harry smile around his nipple, taking one last bite before slithering down and settling his torso between Draco’s widened thighs, kicking off his boxers on the way and stripping Draco of his pants.

Draco writhes at the first warm gust of breath against the head of his swollen prick. Harry circles the base of it with his finger and thumb of one hand and then stops. Draco nudges his hips up frantically, feeling the head butt against the tight seam of Harry’s devious little smile.

Harry strokes him loosely. “So pale,” he murmurs. “So pale and pretty, everywhere.” He flicks his tongue out in a soft lick against the slit of Draco’s cock, lapping gently at it for a minute before sliding his tongue forward, working Draco’s foreskin back. Draco’s nerves are on fire; Harry gives his cock a tug, one long smooth stroke up.

“ _Tighter_ ,” Draco orders, voice strangled.

Harry laughs again, his tongue making funny vibrations against Draco’s weeping erection and then his opens his mouth. He slides his lips around him, sucking deep, and Draco’s brain goes blank at the utter swamp of sensation; that tight, hot wetness surrounding his cock, Harry’s hand squeezing and stroking as he bobs his head and circles the length of it with his tongue in long swipes.

Draco fucks upward helplessly, seeking more of that warmth, and Harry eagerly swallows him down until Draco is touching the back of his throat. His fingers stroke in time with his mouth, which sucks unendingly, and his free hand reaches up to rasp against Draco’s balls with light, blunt fingertips.

Draco curses; his hips piston upward as his orgasm rips its way down his spine and he tangles a hand in Harry’s messy black hair as he starts to come. Harry swallows, going deeper, the sensation of his throat constricting against the sensitive tip of Draco’s cock making him shoot harder, helplessly, until he’s completely empty.

Harry continues licking him gently until he’s finished, then releases his cock with a soft, wet pop. He gets up onto his knees, sitting back on his heels, and stares down with satisfaction at the complete and total wreck that was once Draco Malfoy.

Harry’s erection bobs outward from his body, so hard that he’s practically poking his own stomach with it, and Draco reaches out a hand to touch him. Harry bats it away. His eyes are huge and dark in his face, and sweat has matted his hair to his temples.

“No,” Harry pants. “I’m too close. Going to get inside you, Draco. We need—” Draco fumbles for his wand and Summons a small pot of lube from his bathroom, which Harry plucks out of the air automatically with a surprised look on his face. He unscrews the lid, before glancing down at Draco almost haughtily. “Why haven’t you rolled over yet?”

Draco rolls quickly, obediently, onto his stomach, propping himself on his knees and elbows, already burning at the imperiousness of Harry’s tone. Then he feels Harry’s hand, gentle, on the small of his back. Slow fingers slide down the base of his spine; little feathery touches stroke over the crevice of his arse, and Draco sucks in a breath, leaning into the touch as Harry pets him.

Harry crawls behind him, taking his arse cheeks in both hands to spread them wide. Draco feels his hole constrict with arousal and anticipation. A single digit, slick with lube, rubs over his puckered entrance, tracing it lightly, and then it breaches him with no warning, just swift and clean down to the knuckle. Draco moans; his hands clutch at the bedsheets in surprise and startled pleasure, and Harry groans. “So tight, Draco, around just one finger. And you like it, don’t you? _Don’t you_?”

“Yes, _fuck_.” Draco drops his forehead against his arms, leaning back as Harry’s finger fucks into him. Harry pushes it in deeply, pulls it back, and again and again.

“Another one?”

Draco nods, hoping Harry can see him; he makes an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat as Harry adds another finger and scissors them, loosening him up. His hips bounce backwards against the knobs of Harry’s knuckles and he dares a look behind him; Harry is staring at his hand, the muscles in his forearm bunching as he twists his wrist and his fingers disappear into Draco’s arse again. He his other hand lands on the small of Draco’s back again, steadying him in place.

“So good, Draco; gonna be so good. Going to go so deep inside you. I want you to feel me for each day you walked around like we couldn’t have this,” he says, voice low and steady as he pumps his fingers in and out. His words crash over Draco, heady and addictive, and he moans again, louder. “Every day I tried to show you, wanted you, and you never took it, just walked around in your suits and those fucking robes; always knew you’d be perfect if I could just get you unbuttoned, get your fucking clothes off, could just get you under me.” His fingers are working faster, spreading wider, and Draco’s spent cock begins to throb again as Harry’s fingertips brush a cluster of nerve endings deep inside that makes him shiver.

“Want you,” Draco gasps raggedly. “Fuck me. Please, Harry, fuck me.”

“Yes,” Harry murmurs, removing his fingers and leaving Draco feeling hollow.

Harry lines up behind him, cock slick, opening his cheeks wide, and Draco spreads his legs further in invitation. His breath comes in short, sharp pants as Harry’s cock presses, presses, slowly penetrating his tight ring of muscles and pushing inside. Draco feels the burn, the stretch, just on this side of pain, and it hurts so perfectly as Harry starts a series of short, rutting thrusts, until he’s seated deeply inside Draco’s arse.

He stills. “Oh, god.”

Draco groans. His arms have somehow melted forward and his cheek presses hard into the mattress, arse high in the air and impaled. Harry pulls him back as he strokes forward, clutching at Draco’s hips with bruising fingers. He does it again, deeper, and Draco can hear the slapping sound of flesh on flesh as Harry pumps his hips and sets up a rhythm.

It’s too much, not enough. Harry is saying filthy, delicious things above him; his fingers hurt in just the right ways, his cock is heavy and hard; Draco feels so full, all of his inner nerve endings alight with friction. He reaches for his cock, which is now leaking heavily again, and starts frantically fisting himself, trying to match Harry’s thrusts.

“Harder,” Draco pants, so quiet he’s not sure if Harry can hear, but he somehow seems to understand because his thrusts become more forceful, deeper, _faster_ , and he reaches down to grab the muscles of Draco’s shoulder, fingers biting into them as he shoves in and in and _in_. He grunts in time with the drive of his hips, fucking Draco hard, his groin grinding into Draco’s arse.

Then Harry’s hips stutter, and Draco can feel his cock shudder and swell and twitch as his thrusts become erratic and punishing and Draco grips his own cock tighter, his hand flying over the skin as he starts to come again, spunk shooting onto the sheets and his chest and stomach in thick ropes. Harry cries out his name and Draco feels the gush of warm fluid from Harry’s release inside of him.

Harry droops over him heavily, prying his fingers off Draco’s shoulder and hip to wind around his waist and hold him close, pressing his chest to Draco’s back. Draco can feel the thudding of his heart, quick and intense, and they rest like that for a moment before Harry gently pulls his slowly softening cock out and rolls to his side.

Draco slumps against the sticky sheets as the tightness in his body fades, and looks over at Harry. Harry is watching him, a small, contented smile playing with the edges of his mouth, face blotchy and flushed, scar flickering silver and eyes so very green in a shaft of sunlight from the window.  Draco sees, clearly now, how utterly lacking in beauty his world has been until this moment; he’s spent the last five years trying to wrangle his family name out of the muck, and for what? For what, when there was this, waiting for him?

He’s sorry for the misdeeds of his past, but he knows he can be better than that as he looks at Harry and the shape of his world shifts into something new. Draco reaches out a hand to touch his cheek and Harry’s smile widens, turning his face to kiss Draco’s palm. Draco closes his eyes, too tired even to cast a cleaning charm, and his last thought before he falls asleep is that he didn’t even notice the sun beginning to rise.

***

When Draco wakes, Harry is staring at him, that same sleepy, endearing smile on his face. Sometime in their sleep, they’ve found each other, and their chests are pressed together; Draco’s thigh is thrown over Harry’s hip; Harry’s arm is slung over his waist. Their erections brush together enticingly.

Harry leans forward and kisses him slowly, lingeringly, as if tasting something delicious. His mouth opens and his tongue drags gently over Draco’s lower lip before licking deeper inside. Draco rocks his hips against Harry’s, feeling the gentle friction of Harry’s cock against his own and Harry lets loose a soft breath, like a sigh.

Draco’s whole body hurts, nearly down to his bones, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so lovely. He aches inside and his skin is hypersensitive to the sweep of Harry’s fingers along his sides, over his ribs.

He twists into the sensation as Harry pulls away.

“We forgot protection,” he says, seriously.

Not expecting that, Draco pauses. “What? My wards are up.”

“Protection. Like condoms?”

Draco rolls his hips again, seeking more sensation. “Sorry, but can we talk about this later?”

“Uh, no, we should probably,” Harry gasps, just a bit, “talk about this before it goes further. Don’t tell me wizards don’t ever use protection during sex. Oh, god, please don’t tell me that,” he says, thrusting back a little as if he can’t help it.

Then it clicks. “Oh, you mean a Muggle prophylactic!” Draco says, weirdly proud of himself. Their pricks are still rubbing together. “No, we don’t need to.”

“Don’t need to?” Harry is beginning to sound a little desperate.

“Cleaning spells take care of it. I’ll just— _ah_ , that’s good, I’m close—cast a quick cleaning spell… after… oh, god, don’t stop,” Draco breathes.

He sees the moment that Harry decides that “later” is absolutely fine, because his eyes darken and he gives in to a deep, rasping groan. He kisses Draco again, the bristle of his morning beard scraping against Draco’s chin and then neck as he nibbles his way down to mouth at Draco’s neck, licking and sucking at it. Draco rolls them over so that he’s on top, and reaches down, cupping Harry’s balls gently with one hand and holding his cock in place with the other as Draco frots against him, pressing Harry’s cock against his belly in a slow drag and push motion that has Harry squeezing his eyes shut tightly and whisper, “Oh Jesus fuck that’s so fucking good.”

It doesn’t take long, a few sweating, frantic pushes of his hips, Harry’s hands coming down to grasp at his tightly clenched arse cheeks, and Draco is coming hard, spilling over himself and Harry’s cock and stomach. Harry pushes up and Draco reaches in between them, taking Harry’s cock in his hand and pumping tight, two long strokes, and then Harry comes as well, spunk splattering over Draco’s fingers and dripping to pool in his naval.

Draco gives him a wicked smile and Harry grins over at him beatifically as Draco releases him and reaches for his wand, casting a gentle cleaning spell. For good measure, he casts an extra one on himself; his buttocks and thighs feel sticky and moist from sex, and Harry raises his eyebrows.

“That’s it?”

“Gets rid of everything,” Draco confirms simply. “Not that wizards can catch Muggle diseases, anyhow. We’re a lot more prone to other kinds of illnesses. Shower?”

“If we’re clean, why do we need…?”

Draco leers at him.

“Oh, right.” Harry smirks. “Shower. Yes.”

***

They trudge into the kitchen at half one. Draco sits, giving a cracking yawn as Harry begins to assemble the makings of an omelet and Draco sips from his tea, admiring the curve of Harry’s boxer-clad arse as he bustles around his kitchen. His cock gives a warning twitch and he looks down at it in his pants with equal parts confusion and admiration; he didn’t realize it had so much ambition.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he tells it. “Stay down for a few minutes, you idiot.”

Harry laughs, turning around to waggle his eyebrows at Draco’s crotch. “They’re just as stupid as we are for each other, I guess.”

Some deeply hidden piece of Draco shines at the compliment. Harry begins cracking eggs into a bowl and whipping them. He adds milk and salt and turns on the oven and soon the kitchen is filled with the smell of melting butter and cooking eggs and Draco’s stomach begins growling. After a few minutes, Harry slides a plate onto the table and Draco latches onto it like a starving man as Harry slips into the seat beside him and begins eating his own, rubbing Draco’s ankle with his foot.

“You’re giving it ideas,” Draco mumbles, not looking up.

“I’ll have a conversation with it later,” Harry snickers.

Draco is barely half-finished when his wards chime in announcement. Irritation fills him but at Harry’s sigh, he abandons his breakfast (lunch?) and they walk into the sitting room, where Ron and Hermione wait anxiously, and Kingsley is beginning to walk out of his Floo.

Hermione notices their lack of dress first and, though her cheeks get pink, a little smile plays with the corners of her mouth. Ron’s eyes widen, but he, too, gives a smile (somewhat more pained than his wife's). The Minister, however, pins Draco with a severe look and booms, “I was told you had no plans to interfere with him while he was here. You were supposed to take care of him, Mr. Malfoy.”

The bottom drops out of Draco’s stomach, but Harry just chuckles and says, “Oh, he did,” in a lascivious way that makes Draco’s blush blister. An embarrassed giggle escapes Hermione.

“I didn’t—I don’t—I’m sorry, Sir.”

Harry scowls at him, then turns the look on the Minister. “For what? I’m twenty-three fucking years old, Kingsley, I hope you’re not trying to tell me who to fall in love with or what I’m allowed to do with them in bed.”

There’s that word again.

Draco straightens his shoulders, courage given by Harry’s casual phrasing. “I had no intention of taking advantage of him, Minister,” he says firmly. “But I’m not taking advantage, am I? He hasn’t been Imperiused. He has free will.”

Shacklebolt rubs a distracted hand over his face. “This is more than I ever wanted to know about your sex life, Harry.” He pauses. “I apologize, Mr. Malfoy. We’re here because…”

Hermione thrusts a paper forward. The Prophet. Blood drains from Draco’s face as he reads the headline: **_THE BOY WHO LIVED: ALIVE!_** Beneath is a photograph from what seems to be a Pensieve memory—Draco didn’t even know that was possible—and an interview from the concierge at Draco’s California hotel. The photograph depicts Harry coming up behind Draco, looking decidedly rumpled.

“Why did it take so long? How is this possible?” Harry demands incredulously. “It’s been almost a month!”

Draco’s fingers feel numb.

“We think he shopped it around,” Shacklebolt explains wearily, sitting down. “Plus, there was the problem of getting the memory into a photograph. We’re still working on how they did that one.”

“I should have Obliviated him,” Draco murmurs.

“As a hotel employee, he was exempt from spells cast by the patrons,” Shacklebolt explains. “We already checked. You did nothing wrong, boy.”

Draco looks up in surprise. Harry takes his hand.

“Harry, the frenzy is already starting,” Hermione says quietly. “We don’t know how long you’ll be safe here.”

“He’s not leaving!” Draco interrupts, feeling vaguely panicked at the idea. Harry’s hand squeezes his gently. “And he’s not going out there yet.”

“We may not have a choice,” the Minister says.

“Shore up my wards. No one can enter this building without express permission from the tenant they are trying to see, anyhow; it’s why I picked this place.” When Harry gives him a sidelong look, he mutters, “Former Death-Eater, you know. Besides which, this flat isn’t even registered to my name as another precautionary measure; it’s under the name of Daniel Mellion. I’ll close down my Floo completely if I have to. We need a little more time.”

“It’s true,” Harry says steadily. “I can’t be who they think I am, not yet.”

“But—but my Mum, and Gin…” Ron says, looking confused.

“I remembered them. I remember things. But there are still too many… holes. I don’t understand it, but the biggest gaps to my memory seem to be the biggest things to happen to me, with the exception maybe of Ginny.” Harry frowns a little. “But maybe that’s because I’m—he—we’re over her. It feels like the important things are still hidden. My childhood. The war. You guys. So much of it is a blank.

“So my options are to either go somewhere and hide, away from everyone or come out to everyone,” he continues. “Or, I could just stay here, and keep working on it.”

The Minister is quiet for a moment.

“We’ll shore up your wards,” he concedes. “I’m sure you’re aware that, despite the name on your residence, the Ministry has records on the living spaces of all former Death Eaters or supporters of Voldemort. This place is bound to come out. I’ll confiscate any and all files I can find on you, Malfoy; I can try to buy you a few weeks.”

“Thank you,” he says soberly.

“I’m sorry, Harry. Malfoy,” Ron says. He looks angry. “You even told us about the concierge noticing Harry and no one followed up.”

“It’s not your fault, Ron,” Harry says. “And we can’t do anything about it now, anyway.”

Hermione gives a little, lurching gasp, and Harry releases Draco’s hand to step forward as she staggers a bit and Ron steadies her. Harry places a gentle, inquisitive hand on her rounded belly and looks into her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Stress. False contractions. High blood pressure,” she rattles off clinically, but she looks up at him with a wan smile. Harry’s hand begins tenderly stroking her stomach, almost as if he’s unaware he’s doing it.

“You should be resting,” he says quietly.

“You know her,” Ron grumbles.

“Yes.” It’s so simply stated that Draco believes it, even if Harry does not.

“Anyway,” Hermione says briskly. “We’ve too much to do.” She fumbles around in her bag for a moment and brings out a small, capped vial. “I’ve brought some meditative potions. They’ve been deemed safe by the Ministry, don’t worry. I doubt they’ll help much because they’re designed to bring you to a reflective state where you can identify false memories, which is why I haven’t brought them before, but at this point it can’t hurt. They’re the same kind I used on my parents when I was trying to restore their memories,” she mumbles. “They’ve been perfected since then.”

She hands it over. “Just take three drops under your tongue—no more, no less—and let your mind wander. Normally I’d give you a frame of reference to look at—it helps loosen false memories from your mind—but I guess you could just try to focus on anything you do remember, and everything you don’t.”

Harry nods, and passes the vial to Draco. He uncaps it curiously and takes a sniff; there are subtle hints of rosemary and poppy seed, with more fragrant notes of boom berry underneath.

Shacklebolt tells them they’ll be sending people over later to strengthen Draco’s wards and departs, followed soon after by Hermione and Ron, who insists she needs to lie down for a while and is backed up by Harry—and even Draco, who can see how peaked she’s beginning to look. She gives in with bad grace, promising to return the following day.

When they are alone, Draco holds out the vial. “We should start on this. It seems to contain primarily relaxation properties.”

Harry shakes his head, walking over and sliding his arms around Draco’s waist. He leans in, face wistful, and kisses him slowly. “Later.”

Draco kisses him back, humming in appreciation, a warm thread of happiness uncurling low in his stomach.

“All right,” he agrees, as Harry clutches him tighter and nestles his face into the curve of Draco’s neck almost desperately. He wonders at it, but not enough to question the first true good luck he’s had in years. “Later.”

***

The next three weeks happen in a flurry of activity. Harry finishes Hermione’s diaries, commenting only that, “You were a right shit to us, weren’t you, Draco?” When Draco nods with a sheepish smile, Harry turns back to reading.  When he finishes the ones that take place during their lost winter and after the Battle at Hogwarts, he grows silent and retreats to the guest room for a whole night and day. Draco desperately wants to know what’s going on in his mind, but refuses to press. When Harry comes out, he’s a little pensive, has gained another scar—on his chest, an oddly zig-zagging one, reminiscent of his trademark forehead scar that still only flickers occasionally—and his accent has returned full-time.

Shacklebolt sends over two of his best Aurors to work on Draco’s wards and Draco has to witness their faltering professionalism as they make Harry’s acquaintance for the first time, shaking his hand too heartily and glancing at him for too long, tentatively awestruck, whenever he walks into the room. However, their silence has been assured through a binding non-disclosure, and they perform their work quickly and well; and just in time, too, as it takes reporters less than a week to discover his location, and they begin to nest outside of Draco’s building. Draco is forced to postpone all of his business meetings, which is a difficult and ongoing task, as the reporters have begun attempting to intercept his owls.

Hermione and Ron visit every day, and usually with a sigh of relief as their home address has been swamped with strangers and the press, and they update Harry and Draco on the outside world for the peaceful few hours they spend in their company: Ron has requested a temporary leave of absence due to their impending child, but Draco can read between the lines; as a rather famed Auror, it’s too complex for him to be working in the public, or even in the bowels of the Ministry.

So far, they’ve both gotten away with saying “No comment,” to anyone who asks, but it’s getting increasingly difficult for them to venture out, either together or individually. Hermione, too, has taken a break from work under the same excuse, although Draco can see how irritated she is at having nothing to do by the way she throws herself into research about Harry’s condition.

He and Harry work on meditation together; Draco holds his hands and watches him drift under the peace that the potion brings, but it’s slow-going and frustrating work. Harry describes points of recognition, but no real memories come to his mind during the hours they spend investigating his psyche. He does, however, receive three more scars: what looks to be a cursed knife slice on the inside of his left forearm, a burn of some kind on his right wrist, and a nasty-looking set of fang marks right above that.

They ask Rudy to join them again for another session, and it goes about the same. A bit more black mist escapes Harry, and he vaguely answers some questions before falling asleep for twelve hours. Rudy assures them that there’s really nothing else he can do.

But Harry does dream; his dreams return in full force, in fact, and he often wakes up screaming, clutching at his forehead, although when he’s more awake he assures Draco—who is perilously frightened by these events—that it doesn’t hurt.

The newspaper articles, delivered by Ron and Hermione, begin to get more outrageous and ugly. ** _WHY HE ABANDONED US: FORMER CLASSMATES GIVE TELL-ALL INTERVIEWS!; RELIGIOUS GROUP INSISTS THAT HARRY APPEARS TO THEM IN VISIONS!; WHAT CAN WE DO TO SAVE OUR SAVIOR?; MINISTRY SAYS ‘NO COMMENT’ ABOUT THE WHEREABOUTS OF HARRY POTTER: IS CORRUPTION TAKING A FOOTHOLD AGAIN?_**

However, in between, there are such shining moments of exquisite beauty and happiness, Draco wonders how he’s managed his whole life to go without them: Harry feeding him fruit, fingers dripping with juice. Harry bent over his kitchen table, begging hoarsely for more, as Draco plows into him with force. Harry laughing, arm slung around Draco’s shoulder on the sofa as they talk to his friends.

He and Harry sit together at night, curling up with books—often sans clothing—and read by the low light of his lamps, and Draco can smell Harry’s scent, his hair, and touch him whenever he wants with no fear of negative consequence, as Harry will simply lean into his touch and smile, and lead him into more productive pursuits.

They spell cast together, and Draco tries not to be afraid of how quickly Harry takes everything in, surpassing Draco’s own talent and hard-earned abilities, becoming more and more himself with every flick of his wand. But Harry enjoys it so much, and Draco files every memory of Harry’s smile away for the moment coming, sooner and sooner now, when he won’t be able to see it anymore.

Mrs. Weasley comes to visit them and surprises Draco by enveloping him in a hug as she thanks him for bringing Harry back to her. Ginevra Weasley is less emphatic in her praise, although she does thank him as well, as Neville crows, “It’s true, it’s true!” with delight and swoops down to grab Harry, who seems bemused by his joy and ends up talking with him for hours.

The remaining Weasley twin shows up later as well, and Harry seems to know him, easily falling into what seems to be a well-worn pattern of communication between them that subsists primarily on jokes.

And oddly, everyone in Harry’s life seems to accept Draco as a part of it, talking as though he’ll be joining Harry in the Burrow for Sunday dinners once they can leave his flat, asking them what they plan to do for Christmas, inquiring about Draco’s businesses as though they care.

Hermione begins to get frustrated at the end of the second week when Harry makes little progress with his memories, despite his assurances that something is happening, and begins to pressure him to visit either the Dursley’s home or Hogwarts, which she feels sure will help him. Harry flatly refuses to visit the Dursley’s in a way that makes Draco suspect he remembers more than he’s letting on, and seems equal parts eager and reticent to visit Hogwarts, although they’ve received several missives from the Headmistress expressing her delight at Harry’s return and offers to host them before school opens.

Nearly two weeks in to their exile, Draco wakes late and alone, sore from an early-morning bout of sexual gymnastics, and shuffles into the sitting room to discover Harry sitting, fully clothed, reading a newspaper. It somehow feels forbidding, the way Harry glances up at him with a quick flick of his eyes and then back down at the paper, with no greeting.

Draco clears his throat and sits beside him. “Hermione’s already been by?” He indicates the paper.

Harry gives a short nod. “And the Minister. The wards are beginning to break down. The reporters figured out that if they work together, they could breach the building. Aurors are arresting those they see doing it, but they’ve gotten sneakier.” he says grimly. “Shouldn’t be more than a few days, now.”

Something cold coils in Draco’s midsection. “I see.” He pauses. “Are you angry at me?”

Harry grimaces and shuts his eyes. “No. But two months ago… I was free from this,” he says, with a gesture at the windows with their tightly-closed drapes. “My life was… simple. I wouldn’t say I was happy, exactly—not knowing the first seventeen years of your life will make that impossible—but I was content. I had my shop, a couple of friends, Morty. The beach. And now…” He sighs, a sharp exhalation. “You exchange one thing for another.”

“Yes.” It’s true. Draco hesitates. “I’ve wondered at that—how easily you let yourself try to become yourself. You never even insisted I call you James once we were back here.”

Harry considers. “It was a made-up name. For the first time in years, I had people telling me, ‘this is who you are.’ I wanted it. It felt right. All of the weirdness felt right.”

“That’s been your whole life,” Draco says quietly. “People have always done that to you; tell you who you are. Or, at least, who you are to them. Even I did,” he admits. Harry nods, looking at him thoughtfully.

He hands over the paper, and Draco’s eyebrows fly up as he reads the headline: ** _WHAT HAS DRACO MALFOY DONE TO HARRY POTTER? WILL MINISTRY OFFICIALS INVESTIGATE SUSPECTED ILLICIT ACTIVITIES?_** He drops the paper and casts a disgusted _Incendio_ at it, and they watch it burn and disappear. Harry wordlessly points his wand at the scorch mark left behind, and it disappears.

“What would you like to do, Harry?” Draco makes himself ask.

There’s a long pause.

“I think it’s time for me to go to Hogwarts,” he says.

***

They decide to wait until the following morning. After Harry talks to Hermione, who says she will alert the Headmistress, Harry closes the Floo against any visitors—even though the only people allowed through anymore are his friends—and takes his time with Draco for the rest of the day. They eat and laugh and read and fuck, and Harry is quite insatiable, a fact for which Draco finds himself profoundly grateful when he wakes up the next morning, aching everywhere and feeling bloody wonderful.

Harry is lying next to him, watching him. His eyes are dark and serious.

Draco looks at him questioningly. “Are you okay?”

“I just… I wanted to say, before we go,” Harry gets out before stopping, an odd look on his face. Then he clears his throat. “I wanted to tell you I love you.”

Oh.

Draco’s stomach clenches. He stares at Harry for a moment. He’s said it before; it’s not new information. He’s practically announced to his entire circle of friends, as well as choice people at the Ministry, that he’s in love with Draco. But saying it like this… The tender, solemn look in his eyes, the intimate tone. It _feels_ different. And instead of happiness at the declaration, Draco feels nothing for a moment except for a startling, sharp fear in his heart that this will all be over soon.

Still.

Draco takes a deep breath and looks at Harry evenly. “I love you, too.”

Harry’s smile breaks like the morning sun, as though he’s relieved by the information, as though Draco hasn’t been expressing it in a thousand different ways for weeks now, as though it hasn’t been completely obvious.

He kisses Draco, hard and searching, just once, before they climb out of bed to get ready for their day. After they get dressed, Harry opens the Floo and Hermione and Ron come tumbling through it a few minutes later. Draco notices Hermione’s cough and makes a note to give it a good cleaning soon.

“Ready?” she says brightly.

“Ready,” Harry confirms, tone low.

Ron steps immediately back in and calls out, “Hogwarts: Headmistress’s office!” before disappearing. Hermione gives Harry’s hand an encouraging squeeze and follows. Harry stands still, gazing into the fireplace.

“Are you okay?”

There’s a tiny jerk of his head. “Yeah. I just…” He licks his lips. “Can you go first? I don’t think I can make myself go unless you’re waiting for me on the other side.”

His breath is slightly choppy, his face pale. He brushes his fringe back in agitation; his scar blips in and out of visibility. Draco steps forward, catching Harry’s eyes with his own. Harry looks on the verge of panic, tightly reigning himself in, and Draco feels stupid for not seeing sooner how afraid Harry is to travel to the place he disappeared from. He presses a kiss to his mouth, sweet and slow, and when he pulls away, Harry’s eyes have cleared a bit.

Draco steps into the fireplace and gives Harry a small smile before calling out his destination and disappearing. There’s sudden nauseating twist in his stomach, and then he’s walking out of the fireplace in Headmistress McGonagall’s office, who is looking at him with surprise, the severe lines of her face softened somewhat in anticipation.

“Malfoy,” she says, almost kindly, and holds out her hand. He shakes it firmly, and her eyes warm. “Thank you so much. I’m glad you could join us.” Her gaze travels to the fireplace. “Will Potter be joining—”

There’s a flash of green, and Draco turns around to see Harry tentatively step out. His nervous energy has faded somewhat, but he still seems astonished as he looks around the room to the cluster of portraits that are smiling—a little manically, in Draco’s opinion—down at him.

His eyes settle on the Headmistress, and it’s suddenly just like that first moment in the Burrow; his face relaxes with a deep, affectionate recognition, and he reaches McGonagall in two long strides, scooping her up in his arms. “Hello, Professor.”

“Potter, my goodness, this is highly inappropriate, put me down this instant, young man!” she demands, her voice girlish and flustered. But she’s smiling and clutching back at him tightly, and Draco is sure he can see tears in her eyes.

Ron and Hermione look giddy in the corner, as they do every time Harry seems to remember something important.

At length, Harry releases her gently and she peers up at him over her glasses, her eyes searching. Her cheeks are quite pink. She lays a palm on the side of Harry’s cheek for a moment and murmurs, “I’m very glad you’re back, Potter.”

Harry grins at her a bit recklessly. “Me too, Professor.”

McGonagall pokers up a bit and gives him a smirk worthy of a Malfoy. “It’s Headmistress now.”

“Right.” Harry laughs, and she seems pleased.

She clears her throat and straightens. “Well, then. This is an ideal time for you to return, Potter. I was hoping you would take me up on the offer before next week; most of the teachers are gone for the summer—including Hagrid, I’m sorry to say. I wasn’t permitted to owl him with the news of your return, and he’s currently in the Alps right now, looking for—” She waves a distracted hand. “Well. The castle is fairly empty right now, and you’ll have time to look around. I can give you accommodations for the night, as well, if you like.”

Harry becomes hesitant again. His eyes dart up to the portrait of Dumbledore, who is looking down on him steadily.

“I, er… Would it be okay if we were to wander a bit? I’d like to look at the site of the battle, if that’s okay, and the Forbidden Forest?”

“As you need,” she allows. “The repairs have been completed, so you’ll find it much changed since the last time you saw…” she begins, then hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “That is, since the last time you were here.” She pauses. “Would you like an escort?”

“No,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t think I’ll need one.”

They promise to join her for tea later, and she gives them the password for Gryffindor tower before the group winds its way down the narrow staircase leading from her office. Harry stops, raising chin as if he’s scenting the air, and then turns left abruptly, following some instinctive urge. He walks fast and has to slow twice when Hermione, trailing behind with Ron, can’t keep up.

The halls of Hogwarts are having a strange effect on Draco as well; he hasn’t been here since the morning after the final battle, and the air is thick with ghosts of his own making. The familiar stone corridors seem to hold too many memories, none of which he is particularly proud.

They stand in the doorway of the Great Hall for a moment and Harry stares in, intense and unblinking, before he turns away without entering. He pivots on his heel and walks swiftly away, leading them outside to the edge of the hill that overlooks the Forbidden Forest.

“Harry,” Hermione says in a small voice.

He looks at her, distracted.

“I’m sorry. I can’t make it down there right now.” She sounds near tears, but her hands are cradling her belly in a protective fashion. “I’m so sorry.”

“You sit here, ‘Mione,” Ron says tenderly. “I’ll go with him.”

“No,” Harry says. He gives her a small smile of understanding, then looks at Ron. “Stay with her. I have Draco, and I won’t be long.”

“Are you sure?” Ron asks, torn. “I’m sure. You weren’t there the last time,” he says, a little sadly.

“Neither was Malfoy.”

“His mum was,” Harry says. The certainty in his voice sounds wretched, and Draco hates himself for taking hope in it.

Harry holds his hand as they descend the grassy slope. They pass Hagrid’s hut—Harry rests his eyes on it briefly with something like longing—and continue on until they have reached the edge of the forest. Harry’s hand has grown slippery with sweat in Draco’s grip, but he holds on tight as Harry leads him under the canopy of trees.

The sudden darkness and chill makes Draco shiver. He looks at Harry apprehensively, but Harry seems in another world.

They proceed, leaves and packed earth under their feet, for many minutes before Harry stops. He looks around vaguely, and his eyes land on the dull shine of something a few feet away, almost entirely obscured by leaves. He heads over and picks it up, holding it as one would a bird’s egg.

Draco takes a closer look. Its surface is matted, but has a faint gold sheen; it looks like a tiny, strange bowl in Harry’s grip, and it takes a moment for it to click in Draco’s mind: it’s half of a Snitch, hollowed out from the inside. Harry makes a deep, mournful sound, and holds the thing tighter in his hand.  He takes a deep breath and they walk on.

The forest is getting darker as they go further, despite the hour, and Draco knows where they’re heading though he and Harry have never talked about it at length. But Draco’s mother has recounted the story so many times, he has no doubt that they’re going to the place where Harry nearly died and everything in him revolts at the idea of Harry having to come here as a boy, aware that he was at his end.

They step into a small clearing that feels heavy with magic, pulsing along Draco’s skin unpleasantly. The air smells thick, like wet leaves and ash, and Harry stares ahead sightlessly. His mouth is tight with pain, his entire body tense. His grip on Draco becomes painful, but Draco doesn’t allow him to loosen his hold.

Then Harry turns to him, swift and startling, and hugs him tightly, burying his face in Draco’s hair. A single, broken noise escapes him, like a sob, and Draco wraps his arms around him, rubbing his back in gentle circles between the shoulder blades. His throat is tight, and he takes a deep, calming breath, inhaling the spice of Harry’s shampoo. Harry pulls away, and Draco looks at him intently, but doesn’t ask what he’s desperate to know.

“Let’s go,” he says. “All right?”

Harry nods, swallowing convulsively, and they head out of the forest. It’s a longer trek than it seemed on the way in, but soon enough the bright sunshine, almost offensively merry for such an day, is warming their skin again. They walk back to Ron and Hermione, who are waiting anxiously.

“You all right, Mate? Remember anything?” Ron asks.

Draco winces. Harry gives him a strained smile, but doesn’t answer. He looks at Hermione, whose hands are folded delicately over her stomach. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She graces him with a perceptive, sorrowful look. “What do you want to do next?”

“The Great Hall, I think,” Harry says listlessly. He casts a haunted look at the castle.

They head back in, and this time when Harry pauses in the doorway, he inhales deeply and steels himself before forcing his feet forward, and Draco doesn’t know if he’s ever admired someone their courage so much. Well. Except for Harry, that is, before.

Harry’s eyes are steady once they’re inside, and he seems calm. Draco watches him carefully. Harry takes a long look at the tables, lingering over the Gryffindor table a bit.

“We sat there,” Hermione whispers, pointing. She points at another area, in the middle, and Draco can imagine it: the sea of people watching, Harry and Voldemort circling each other, that final, blinding flash of light as their spells collided. “That’s where you and Voldemort…”

Harry grunts a little, but moves closer. There’s a table there, now.

Draco is struck by how the _same_ everything is, as though his lover, barely a man then, half-starved and filthy, had not once killed the most dangerous wizard in history from that very spot. The walls have been repaired, the ceiling is a bright blue bowl of sky above them.

Harry is pensive as he rejoins them. “Now my room.”

Both Ron and Hermione seem to have come to the same conclusion Draco has: that it’s better not to ask any questions. The silence between the four of them seems unnerving as they walk together, creating a clattering echo from their footfalls that sounds vaguely sinister, as if they’re being followed.

They climb the stairs and make their way to the landing in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. She looks at them askance. “Oh, ho, so the rumors are true!”

Harry looks at her oddly. “You’ve heard the rumors?”

“Absolutely _every_ painting is talking about it, my dear!” she assures him. Harry purses his lips and mumbles a thank you before giving over the password—wildflower. She dutifully swings open, and they climb inside.

The Gryffindor common room is near exactly what Draco had suspected it would be: covered in red and gold, with lions everywhere. He wants to curl his lip in distaste for the décor—it seems tacky, and needlessly ostentatious—except that the furniture does look rather comfortable, and there’s no giant eel peering in creepily through the windows, so there’s that.

Harry has fallen silent again. His eyes flick to different areas of the room. He walks over to a corridor with a series of steps and glances at Ron, who nods gravely. Harry’s tension has returned, his breath is short and ragged, and they file up the spiral staircase. He heads, unerringly, to the correct room and steps inside; Draco can tell from the way Ron’s eyebrows fly up as he exchanges a look with Hermione and follows.

Harry is edgy; he prowls the room, clutching at his wand with his hand as though ready to fight the location itself. Draco pulls his own wand, just in case that’s necessary, and Harry notices, face relaxing into a brief smile. He heads over to a bed, one of four, which is adorned with thick scarlet covers and bed hangings, and again looks to confirmation, although at this point, Draco isn’t sure why.

“This is…”

Ron swallows. “Yeah.”

Harry nods. His hand caresses the crisp white pillow regretfully. Draco can smell the magic coming off him in waves; heightened energy from his fear or memories or longing. It has its own rhythm, like an instrument. Like a symphony of them.

Harry stays frozen like that for a moment, staring down at his bed. Then he looks up, his eyes seeking Draco first, and then his friends.

“All right,” he says simply. “Let’s go have tea, now.”

***

McGonagall seems pleased to see them back, “so soon,” she says, although it’s been nearly two hours since they departed from her office. As it’s closer to lunch than teatime, she requests a full spread be brought up, and they are served soup and sandwiches and desserts by two quaveringly excited house-elves.

“Is Kreacher here?” Harry asks one of them.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir,” she squeaks back reverently. “Maple will go get him now for you, sir, Kreacher is being very glad for Harry Potter’s return. We is all very proud to serve and know the renowned Harry Potter, savior of the house-elves.”

“No, don’t,” Harry says hurriedly. “I’ll come, er, speak to him another time.” He glances at McGonagall. “Does everyone know I’m back?”

She gives him an arch look and glances up at one of the portraits with irritation; he is studiously examining his nails and refuses to look up.

“ _Someone_ ,” she says pointedly, “took it upon himself to discuss it with the other portraits, and you know how these things spread. They are not bound by any Silencing contracts,” she explains, looking put-out.

They talk about inconsequential things over lunch—the new potions instructor is popular, the soup is delicious, the possible names for Ron and Hermione’s offspring. McGonagall seems completely uncurious as to the results of Harry’s tour; she distracts him subtly, plying him with food and light conversation about the events at Hogsmeade, and the institutional changes at Hogwarts over the past few years.

When they are finished eating, Harry politely declines the offer to spend the night. “I don’t think it would be wise, right now,” he says, and the headmistress’s mouth purses a little, but she nods.

“You are always welcome to visit, Potter.”

“Thank you, Professor. Headmistress.” He glances at Draco, Ron and Hermione, who are waiting for him near the Floo, then back to McGonagall. “Would you mind if I used your office privately, for a minute?”

She is completely unflustered by the question, almost as though she has been expecting it. She stands in a swift, graceful movement. “Of course, Potter. I have some things to attend to on the grounds,” she says, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder before she walks out of the office without a backward glance.

Harry watches her leave with a small smile. He turns to the rest of them. “Can I…”

“Oh,” Ron blurts. “You want _us_ to leave?”

Harry looks embarrassed. His eyes seek Draco’s. “Yeah. If that’s okay?”

Draco glances at the portrait of Dumbledore. The man appears to be asleep. He looks back at Harry. “Are you sure? I can stay.”

“No. I’ll be home, later,” Harry says quietly.

Home, he says. Home.

Hermione gives him a quick hug and Ron, what sounds like a painful slap on the back before they leave. Harry leans forward and drops a preoccupied kiss onto the corner of Draco’s mouth.

Draco steps indecisively into the Floo with a handful of powder, and calls out his address. The last thing he sees, before he disappears, are tears filling Harry’s eyes as Dumbledore wakes up.


	5. Chapter 5

When Draco steps out of his Floo, he’s surprised to see Ron and Hermione waiting for him; he somehow hadn’t noticed them call out his address when they’d left Hogwarts.

He sighs deeply. “Drink?”

Ron looks relieved. “Scotch. If you have it.”

Draco heads over to his cabinet and pours two fingers for him, and a club soda for Hermione, though she hasn’t asked. He hands them over, then pours himself one, knocking it back in one large swallow.

Ron sips at his gently, eyeing Draco over the rim of his glass. “He knew so much. Do you think he remembered?”

Draco isn’t sure how to answer when he knows the answer is _yes_. But, obviously, it’s for Harry to reveal. He shakes his head. “We can’t be sure yet.”

“Yes, we can,” Hermione murmurs, staring down into her drink.

“I’ll be glad when he’s himself again,” Ron says.

“He’s already himself,” Draco snaps. “He always has been. Not remembering you doesn’t make him less of who he is.”

Hermione puts down her glass and looks at him evenly. “And who is that, Draco?”

Draco flounders, embarrassed at his outburst. “Someone who cares. Maybe too much. Someone kind and stupidly self-sacrificing. Someone talented and smarter than people give him credit for. Well,” he corrects himself, “than I did.”

“You’re in love with him,” Ron says simply, sounding surprised.

“Of course, I’m bloody in love with him,” Draco shoots back, exasperated. “You’ve met him. You know.”

“I just didn’t know you…” Ron pauses and has the grace to look sheepish. “Harry is so… ready to care for people, despite their, you know, histories.”

“Well, we’ll see if that’s still true, soon,” Draco says grimly.

“I just didn’t know that it was true of you, too.”

A thousand retorts on are on the tip of Draco’s tongue at that, but he holds them back, giving the recognition its due. “We’ve all grown up,” he says at last. “We’ve all had to.”

Hermione stands. “Come on, Ron.”

“I thought we were going to wait for Harry.”

“Draco will take care of him,” she says, sounding so sure that it causes a twist in his chest. “Harry will come get us when he needs us.”

Although half of him wants to ask them to stay—he doesn’t want to be alone as he waits for Harry to return—Draco lets them go. He permits himself another drink, and he sips at it more reticently than the last, allowing the warmth to spread through his stomach, relaxing his limbs, even as his mind leaps forward at dizzying speeds.

When Harry finally returns, over an hour has passed, and Draco hasn’t moved from his seat. He stands.

Harry’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face a strangely fragile distortion. He walks out and allows Draco to slide his arms around his shoulders, as he slumps forward into him.

“What can I do?” Draco asks achingly.

Harry shakes his head against Draco’s shoulder. “Nothing.”

The word resonates throughout the room. Draco pulls away to scrutinize him; he looks exhausted and refuses to meet Draco’s eyes. He sways on his feet as though he is about to collapse.

Draco swallows hard. He wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and leads him to his—their—room, then proceeds to disrobe him gently. Harry allows it docilely, letting Draco take off his glasses and set them aside, raising his arms above his head as Draco removes his t-shirt in one clean swipe. He takes Harry’s wand from his pocket and places it on the bedside table and then pushes him to sit. He unties his shoes, slipping them off, and then works his jeans open, giving them gentle tugs until they pool around Harry’s calves. He pulls them off and casts them aside.

Harry stares sightlessly ahead, wearing nothing but his boxers and socks, as Draco attends to him, pulling back the bed covers and settling Harry under them, tucking him in as though he were a child. Harry blinks, slowly, eyes on Draco’s canopy. Draco hesitates, then removes his own clothing efficiently and climbs in beside him.

He pulls Harry close, nestling him in, one arm holding tightly to his shoulders. “Is this okay?” he whispers.

Harry doesn’t respond, but neither does he pull away.  He closes his eyes.

***

When Draco wakes, hours later, it’s to the disoriented awareness of having fallen asleep; the room is dimmer, as though the sun is about to go down beyond his closed drapes.

He’d lain with Harry for over an hour before Harry’s breath had indicated sleep, smooth and hitched with his gentle snore, and in that time, he hadn’t moved from the circle of Draco’s arms. Feeling him relax, Draco had allowed himself to rest his eyes as well, though he hadn’t expected to fall asleep.

There’s another sensation. Harry’s hand, gentle and warm, has slid beneath the waistband of his pants. His cradles Draco’s balls, rolling them gently, fingers brushing over the stretch of skin between them and Draco’s arse. It shoots light little tingles of arousal, and Draco’s cock stirs, slowly lengthening, and becoming thicker. He moves his legs restlessly and opens his eyes.

Harry is looking downward, eyes fastened hungrily on the motions of his hand beneath the fabric of Draco’s pants and on the increasing bulge he’s creating. His other hand plucks at the waistband and Draco obligingly lifts his hips while Harry strips them off.

When Draco is nude, Harry takes his cock in hand, circling it lightly, and strokes up, slowly, slowly, until he reaches the crown. His fingers smooth over the skin at the head and he applies pressure with his thumb to the underside in a gentle squeeze. Moisture leaks out of the slit at the tweak, and Harry releases him, to drag his forefinger over it, spreading it around the sensitive head, plying the foreskin back.

His face is utterly intent and Draco, almost unbearably turned on though he is, feels a little troubled. He touches a knuckle beneath Harry’s chin and gives a nudge. Harry raises his head; they lock eyes.

“Please,” Harry whispers raggedly at whatever reservation he sees on Draco’s face. “Please. I need you.”

Draco softens at the plea; his doubts dissolve, because this is when he knows. This is when it’s over.

He reaches over and kisses Harry as slowly as the attentions of Harry’s hand. Harry’s mouth opens under his, his tongue slick and unhurried against Draco’s own. Draco reaches down and removes Harry’s hand from his cock and presses on his shoulders, rotating him back to lay against the pillows. Harry’s eyes flare hot, the pupils wide and dark as pitch, a faint rim of green around them. He’s already stripped himself of his pants.

Draco leans in and kisses the shell of his ear, sucking at the lobe. He works his way down, mouthing at Harry’s neck, tonguing the pulsating vein on near his collarbone, and then travels further, sinking his teeth into the muscles of his shoulder and Harry groans, twisting gently under him. Draco flutters kisses across the expanse of his chest, pausing to work Harry’s nipples into tight little buds with his tongue and teeth before continuing on, focusing his attention on the flat of Harry’s stomach. He takes small bites of the skin beneath his belly button, scraping his teeth lower, and then traces the line of Harry’s hipbone with his tongue as it dips into his groin.

Harry is fully hard now, and Draco gazes at his erection. It’s a deep pink, weeping liberally already. He drags his fingers through the nest of black hair around it, then grazes the base of it with his fingers as he darts out his tongue over the vein there, too, which threads up the length of his cock in a swollen, flushed ribbon. Harry gives a muffled gasp, and Draco glances up to see that he’s thrown a forearm over his face; his jaw is gritted tightly.

Draco cups his balls in one hand, giving them a gentle squeeze. He prods at the insides of Harry’s thighs, which have clenched tightly together as Draco works on his body, and Harry loosens them, opening them up wide, crooking his knees to give Draco better access.

Draco’s eyes follow the line of him, cock bobbing out eagerly, balls drawn up, the crevice of his arse underneath. He scoots further down, and pries apart the cheeks, admiring the pink strip of skin and the darker, whorled little hole. He presses his face close and exhales, watching it flutter at the sensation. Harry gives another gasp and his legs widen further.

Draco has heard of this, of course; he’s been offered this service by two of his previous lovers. But it somehow always seemed more intimate than he was prepared to allow. And yet, looking at Harry’s puckered skin react only to the stimulus his breath makes Draco’s cock harden further in a visceral response.

He leans in and licks at it tentatively; there’s a flavor of sweat and some remnants of soap, and the muskier odor of Harry underneath.  He increases pressure with his tongue, tracing the rim with the tip of it. Harry begins to pant above him, digging his heels into the mattress to raise his arse higher. Draco tucks his arms underneath Harry’s thighs and grips his hips with tight fingers, kissing and sucking at his hole lightly, working the edge of his tongue in as he feels the muscles begin to loosen.

He latches his lips around it and gives a hard suck, swirling his tongue around and around as he does, and Harry’s hand finds Draco’s hair, threading through it desperately as he applies pressure to the back of Draco’s head, pressing him closer. Draco accommodates him, continuing to suck and firming up his tongue to stab it inside over and over and over, gently at first and then more confidently.

Harry groans, “Oh, _fuck_ , Malfoy,” harsh and loud, as his hips buck and he rides Draco’s face. He’s as hard as Draco’s ever seen him, and he reaches down as though to touch himself, but Draco catches his hand awkwardly and presses it aside. 

Draco’s cock aches; it’s leaking liberally against the sheets, and he wonders that he hasn’t come yet, just doing this. With reluctance, he unlatches his mouth, and Harry’s hips come down heavily, trapping Draco’s arms. Draco disengages them from underneath him, and gets up onto his knees to look at Harry.  He’s sweating and red, panting and floating from sensation, though he hasn’t come yet. Draco fits his hips between Harry’s lax thighs, and prods his bum so that Harry can adjust himself to a better angle. He does, and Draco casts a quick, wandless spell for lubricant to slicken his cock before he lines himself up, pressing gently against Harry’s entrance.

Harry is loose and ready, and Draco moans as he sinks in with one smooth motion to the base of his cock. Harry stares up at him unblinkingly, eyes narrow and dark, lips parted. He raises his right ankle to rest it against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco rotates his hips, grinding his pubic bone against the curve of Harry’s arse. Harry’s face tightens and he groans. He reaches down to take hold of himself, and this time Draco allows it.

He begins pumping in slow thrusts, eyes down to admire the look of his cock disappearing inside of Harry, pushing deeper and then sliding out in slow strokes. Harry’s arse is a silky clasp around his prick, hot and almost impossibly tight, and the tension builds in Draco’s balls as his increases his speed and pressure.

“Yes, like that,” Harry rasps, working himself with an aggressive grip.

Draco looks back up. Sweat beads Harry’s flushed face, and his hair sticks up from the moisture and on Harry’s forehead, there lies his scar. Its existence is steady and immutable, not flickering at all, a lightning bolt above his right eye, as if it’s always been there.

Something moves through Draco at the sight of it, a tug of tenderness or need or pain, and his pace picks up faster, feeling the friction of Harry’s arse cling to him as he slams his cock deeper, the muscles of his own arse bunching, and Harry rocks in time with him, lifting up and up as Draco plows into him, clutching at his backside to spur him on. He feels his orgasm rip through him, his balls drawn up impossibly tight against his body, cock throbbing and jerking with his release as he comes, shooting inside Harry so hard he wonders if it’ll ever stop.

Harry shudders beneath him, working his hand even faster, and Draco fucks him through it, his prick almost too sensitive, until Harry arches and finishes, spilling over his flying fingers and onto his stomach.

In the aftermath, they lay together for long minutes. Draco presses his ear to Harry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow and become steady again before pulling out. Harry whimpers a bit with the loss of contact, but reaches over with one hand, fumbling blindly for his wand, and casts a cleaning charm over them. Draco’s skin tingles from it.

“Are you going to tell me, now?” he asks when he can speak.

Harry blinks at him. His mouth purses to the side. “Yes. Now I will.” He pauses, rubbing the grip of his wand with an absent thumb. “Hermione hasn’t found anything, as far as I know,” Harry adds, voice halting, “but do you know why I think my scar appeared for you?”

“Why?”

“Because from the first time I kissed you, I wanted to be a part of your life,” he murmurs in such a simple, honest way that it makes Draco’s eyes prick. “And I think part of me knew that if I was going to, I’d have to find myself again.”

Draco can’t figure out how to respond, so he doesn't.  He waits.

“I never told you what it was like when I woke up,” Harry begins guardedly. “I mean, the loneliness, the confusion. Yes. But what it’s really like to have no one, not even yourself…

“They kept me in the hospital for over a month, doing tests, and then released me with addresses of two different homeless shelters. One of the nurses, a nice bloke named Mike, gave me twenty dollars so I could get something to eat, and I used all of it in the first day and a half. And the shelters… You have to get there early, or there are no beds. One of them served dinners, and that one was harder to get into.” Harry’s sigh trembles and a pit forms in Draco’s stomach at the sound. “I tried to find work, but I didn’t have any identification, no references. I worked as a dishwasher under the table for a couple of weeks, but I lost the job to someone’s cousin who needed it. And there were people, too, at the shelters, who told me I could make money… doing other things.

“I waited until I hadn’t eaten for four days. People think California doesn’t get cold, but the nights can be really bad in the autumn and winter,” he says, swallowing audibly. Draco forces his eyes away so that Harry won’t mistake pain and horror for pity. “There are places in LA where people know to go, and they’re not far from the shelters… And one night, I went.”

“Harry…”

Harry shakes his head. His mouth firms up. “I waited with a few others. I wasn’t sure what to do. But then a car drove up, and they pushed me forward, and I approached. The window rolled down, and it was Jeff.”

Draco searches his memory for a second before it comes: the owner of the surf shop.

“He was a volunteer at the hospital where I had been, and he recognized me. And I can’t tell you, Draco, how terrifying it was to get in his car. But he just patted my hand and shook his head while I looked at him, and he offered me a place to sleep, no strings attached. He took me home and fed me, gave me a job, helped me get papers, became my friend. And I wondered at my own luck, in the worst situation possible and still given a chance to live,” he says.

Draco stays silent. He’s not sure if he could speak if he tried.

“And I kept _thinking_ about that night, when you brought me here,” Harry says, bringing the subject around. “I would read about myself, and hear stories about myself, and would think, ‘this kid that everyone calls a hero was willing to sell himself for the price of dinner.’

Harry gets up, leaving a warm, empty space on the mattress behind him. Draco watches as he begins to get dressed, in quick, jerky movements, tugging his jeans on and buttoning them, pulling on his shirt. He puts on his shoes and glasses and then sits in a chair near the window and looks at him.

“I wanted to remember, and I didn’t want to remember. I think it might have come easier, if not for that,” Harry admits. “Even when I first saw you… I didn’t know who you were, but I…” He searches for the right word. “I felt like I needed you. I was drawn to you. I thought it was attraction; I’m sure some of it was. But it was also Malfoy and Potter.”

Draco takes a deep breath. He rubs his hands over his face for a moment. “And now you remember.”

“And now I remember everything,” Harry confirms, voice low. “Myself. Ron and Hermione. Dumbledore. Voldemort. That last night. You. Everything about you.” His eyes land on Draco’s forearm which still shows the Dark Mark, faded now. He’s never given it more than a cursory glance before. Bitterness and shame flood, with equal measure.

Draco strives to remain calm. “I see,” he says at last and he’s afraid he does.

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s not why, Malfoy. It’s not.”

“So, I’m not wrong, then? You’re leaving,” he chokes out.

“…You’re not wrong about that part,” Harry says softly, eyes sad. “But you are wrong in assuming I won’t come back.”

Draco’s head comes up. His mouth is dry and acrid, but he feels a surge of hope.

His wards chime, sharp and clear, and Ron’s voice calls out frantically. “Harry, are you here? Malfoy! Harry!”

They exchange a look and Harry bolts from the room. Draco gathers the sheet around him and follows.

Ron is waiting, ringing his hands. “Harry, are you, you?” he asks. “I’m sorry, mate, I know I shouldn’t, but… are you?”

“Yes.” Relief floods his face, which is so red that his freckles have disappeared; he grabs Harry in a tight hug, and Harry hugs him back. “Good. Hermione wants you. She’s in trouble, St. Mungo’s, the baby, there’s something wrong, she keeps saying she needs you there, she just wants you, wants us both,” he babbles.

Harry’s eyes widen. “Go,” he orders Ron. “ _Go_! I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ron jostles his head up; his whole body is shaking. “St. Mungos, Maternity Ward,” he tells him, and then leaves.

Harry turns to Draco and grabs his arms tightly. Draco feels a fluster of panic break through the numbness that’s been sliding through him since Harry’s announcement.

“I have to go,” Harry says. “I have to do some things before I can see you again. I wish I had more time, but I hope you can…” He hesitates. “I hope you can understand. And wait. This is going to be a shitstorm. I get it now. It will be a while,” he says, then presses a fierce kiss to Draco’s mouth, pulling away just as Draco begins to respond.

“Wait!” Draco calls desperately as Harry turns to take a pinch of powder from the crystal dish on the mantle.

Harry tilts his head. So many things come into his mind. He wants to ask if he can come, if Harry will write, how long Draco will have to wait. He wants to say that nothing is so important that Harry can’t come back. What he asks instead, is, “What did Ron say? Before you disappeared?”

Harry smiles wryly and Draco commits it to memory for his Pensieve later.  “He made a joke. He said, ‘you thought you were famous before, mate, just wait. Every wizard in the world will know who you are now—you’ll never get a moment’s peace.’ It wasn’t his fault. I didn’t even mean to go, I don’t think—not really. I just fell asleep, with that in my mind,” he says.

Harry steps into the fireplace. His face is set; he squares his shoulders.

“I love you as much as I did this morning,” he tells Draco.

And then he’s gone.

***

A shitstorm, Draco thinks, more than once in the months that pass, was rather an elegantly-put understatement.

He had only wandered, slightly lost, through his empty flat for four hours after Harry’s departure when his wards were finally breached. First one owl, and then three, came slamming into his closed windows; reporters and other interested parties—which seemed the majority of the city, at the point—began hovering on brooms outside of his apartment. Shacklebolt himself came through the Floo with another Auror to take Draco to a safe-house for the time being, assuring him that Harry would be given his location.

The next morning, Draco read in the paper why such precaution was needed: Harry’s presence at St. Mungo’s had started a mob. They had five Aurors stationed outside of Hermione’s room as she labored, building wards against the masses screaming to get in to see him; apparently two mediwizards and one mediwitch had fainted at the sight of him. They declined later to give interviews to the rabid press, although the Prophet did manage to wrangle the information that with the help of magical and medical intervention, Hermione Granger-Weasley, Healer, War Hero, and one of Harry Potter’s closest friends, had delivered a healthy baby girl after fourteen hours. Draco had sighed with relief.

The newspapers are not as kind to Draco in the weeks that follow. The concierge gives multiple interviews, spreading them out over a long period of time—most likely to draw out his payments, Draco surmises—that detail Draco’s travel plans, his contacts, and the illegalities of his return to Britain, positing more than once that Harry Potter had been either Confunded, Imperiused and kept as a sex slave, or simply kidnapped and held hostage, under Draco’s thumb for years.

He sometimes thinks he should feel flattered at the sheer weight of what people think him capable of.

The press follows Harry night and day, and although they are respectful enough of his power and position that they dare not attempt to break into his home, they camp outside of it for three weeks, hoping for an interview, a soundbite, a photograph.

Well, they get plenty of those.

Draco sees Harry’s face splashed across every paper; he looks alternately exasperated, irritated, bored, furious and even occasionally happy, depending on when they catch him. He can tell Harry’s mood by a glimpse, no interviews necessary, and wants to reach through each paper to kiss him silly before hexing him for leaving.

Harry doesn’t write or visit. Draco thinks of that time during the War, and straight after, when he thought he knew what loneliness was; most of his friends had fled for the Continent, or farther, his father was immediately sent to the lowest bowels of Azkaban, and he and his mother held under arrest until her ugly trial. He remembers standing before the Wizengamot and hearing Hermione testify for him, looking at him steadily the whole time, and his flood of numb shock when they pronounced him free on probation.

And he’d thought he’d was lonely, then.

This is loneliness.

In week four, they allow Hermione to visit the safe house in the middle of the night. He’s astonished that she brings her daughter, Rose, with her, and completely dumbfounded when she passes her into Draco’s arms without another thought.

Draco juggles her carefully in the crook of his elbow, this tiny thing with a thatch of red hair and her mother’s brown eyes, and Hermione sighs at the reprieve. “Thanks. I sometimes feel like she’s melted into me, I hold her so much.”

“Ron couldn’t watch her?” Draco asks. Her face is round, her mouth a perfect little bud as she stares up at him.

“Ron’s sleeping. We take turns. Plus, I’m nursing her, so she needs me more often,” she explains. “And I wanted to see you.”

Draco tries not to let his surprise show; he had hoped that Harry had sent a message along. “You did?”

“Well, yes,” she says in that slightly superior tone that always makes Draco want to throw a jinx her way, just a little bit. He reminds himself that she’s a nursing mother. And also that she’s smiling at him fondly, like he’s daft. “I was worried about you. We’re… friends, now.”

Draco smiles back, a little uncertainly. “I’m all right. I’ll be better when I’m able to leave here, though.”

“It’s not time yet,” she says, a bit cryptically.

Draco ignores her for a moment to look down at the baby, who seems to find him fascinating. One of her hands breaks free from her swaddle, and she opens and closes it. He pokes a finger closer, and she clasps it immediately. “She has impressive motor skills,” Draco says, starting to feel confident just before she ruins it by screwing up her face and crying.

“Oh, give her here,” Hermione says with a sigh, and Draco passes the baby over. She unbuttons her robe and takes a breast out, and Draco flushes from head to foot, not knowing where to look, as she teases the baby’s lips with her rather dark nipple. A frantic sucking sound makes him look back down, and Hermione is staring at him with annoyance as the baby eats. “Oh, Merlin. You and Harry. I’d never have guessed Ron to be the one who wouldn’t bat an eyelash at this.”

Flustered though he is, Draco manages a mild, “He’s seen your tits before, Granger.”

Hermione laughs a little, startling the baby. “I wouldn’t expect someone of your persuasion to be uncomfortable with them,” she says, and Draco smirks.

“I’m not uncomfortable with them in general,” he tells her. “Just with yours, specifically.”

“Get over it,” she snarks back. There is silence for a few minutes as the baby’s nursing becomes lazier and she slowly falls asleep. Milk dribbles down her cheek. Hermione disengages her gently, covers herself back up, and then looks at Draco seriously. Draco swallows.

“Harry can’t come see you,” she says gently. “But I want you to know he’s unhappy about it. I can’t tell you more, because there’s still the threat of someone finding you and…”

“Killing me?” he says lightly. “I read that I kept Harry in a sex dungeon for half a decade; while it sounds like quite the time, a lot of people do seem to object to the idea that their hero is a submissive.”

Hermione snorts. She shakes her head. “Veritaserum is a bigger worry, actually,” she says. “If people found out that you… that he… were… It would make things difficult.”

Suddenly the humor leaves him. “I understand,” he says coldly.

“No, you don’t. But I can’t tell you more. There were so many strings pulled just to keep you out of Azkaban for your bypassing Customs—you do know that you’re still technically on probation for another five years, don’t you?—and if the rest of it comes to light…” She waves an abstract hand. “People are pressuring Kingsley about you. There can’t be any question of impropriety.”

Draco’s mouth tightens against the urge to glare at her. “Well, as much as I appreciated this little chat…”

“Don’t be an arse, Draco. I’m trying to help.”

He sighs and curbs a hand through his hair. “I know. …Has he said anything about me?”

The look she gives him is filled with so much compassion that it hurts, deep inside. “Yes,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate, and changes the subject to more mundane topics.

When she leaves over an hour later, Draco has heard all about the specialty work she does in the Curse Damage center of St. Mungo’s, and has gotten to watch her change two spectacularly atrocious nappies. He’s trying not to feel abandoned by her departure when she hands him a piece of parchment, folded in thirds and sealed with wax, and a little capped vial. She gives him a brief kiss on the cheek, and he surprises himself by leaning into it.

Draco looks down at the letter, heart in his throat. He tries not to notice that his hands are shaking as he opens it.

**_Draco,_ **

**_I got Kingsley to let you come tomorrow. I remember what I said. I hope you do, too._ **

It’s unsigned, but that doesn’t matter. At the bottom, there’s a small lock of dishwater blond hair attached with Spello-tape.

***

“Tomorrow” turns out to be a press conference. The Aurors guarding his safe house Apparate him to a remote, disillusioned alley one street over from the Ministry of Magic, where they give him a moment to uncap the vial, drop the hair in, and drink it.

Although he’s fully aware of the effects of Polyjuice, he’s a little underprepared for the slithering feel of it going down, or the odd sensations of his limbs and face twisting him into someone new. His clothes feel a little tighter around the middle and through the breadth of his shoulders, but overall, still seem to fit.

His bodyguards give him a brief warning of time—he has a mere hour—and assure him that they will be watching from a distance and be ready to intervene should curses begin to fly before he walks down the road to the steps in front of the Ministry, where a giant crowd has gathered, buzzing with speculation.  He winds his way through the crush of people, and finds a spot near-ish to the front to ensure he’ll be able to see. 

As he settles into place, Harry sweeps out of the front doors to stand at the podium set up at the top of the steps. Ron, Hermione, Shacklebolt, and several people Draco doesn’t recognize, follow, and stand on either side of him.

Draco hungrily drinks in his first sight of him in weeks. For some reason, he’s replaced his new glasses with darker, round frames, almost exact duplicates of the ones he used to wear. His robes are a deep, burgundy silk with gold cuffs, high in the neck and tight throughout the chest and waist, but flaring out slightly at the hips down to the tops of his beaten-up trainers. He looks severe and elegant and powerful, and Draco bites his lip as he resists the temptation to climb up there and fuck him in front of all of people watching.

The crowd goes insane, screaming his name and yelling questions, and Harry lets it go on for a minute before raising both hands. For a moment, Draco thinks people have just decided to be respectful when he feels a mild undulation of magic fall over him and realizes that Harry has just gently, wandlessly, Silenced hundreds of people.

He clears his throat, and the sound booms out from whatever modified spell they’ve done to cause his voice to carry.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says, and Draco is proud that his voice barely wavers at all. “I’ve prepared a brief statement, and then I’ll take a few questions; if you’re nice, I’ll take more.” A muted ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and Harry smiles in that lopsided, charming way that he reserves for his friends.

“Almost three months ago, I was discovered living in California by a former acquaintance of mine from Hogwarts. At that time, I had no knowledge of my identity, or his. However, he had the presence of mind to convince me to return to England and attempt to regain what I had lost,” Harry says. “He was aware, as I was not, of my perceived importance to the Wizarding community, and how it would benefit their unending faith and goodness to know that I was safe and alive.”

The murmur grows a bit; the charm Harry cast was obviously not designed to force silence as much as encourage it. Draco hears his own name being spoken by a few people surrounding him.

“He immediately contacted Ministry officials, as well as those I was closest to before I disappeared,” Harry explains, lying through his teeth, “and encouraged my slow recovery of memories in the time that followed, with the help of multiple Healers and Unspeakables. Of course, I’m referring to Draco Malfoy.”

The swell of noise gets just a bit louder.

“In the months that followed, even after it was revealed that I was back, Draco worked tirelessly and selflessly with me, and now I can say with confidence that I remember who I am and, most importantly, what those around me have helped to accomplish that I get so much credit for.” He stops for a moment, looking down and swallowing. “I will always regret not being able to be here to help mourn those lost, or to help bring comfort to those left behind. Because I may have been instrumental in ending the war, but so many others were, too.

“Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley stood by my side for years, fought with me and for me, defended and protected my safety and even my mind, at times,” he says, giving a little chuckle, and the crowd echoes him. “Neville Longbottom spoke out against Voldemort—to Voldemort—and watched out for the younger years against the Carrows in seventh year. It was all of the Weasley family, for teaching me the unending stability of love. It was Albus Dumbledore for his guidance, Severus Snape for his subversive protection. It was Draco Malfoy, for refusing to identify me to my captors in his home, allowing me time to escape. It was Narcissa Malfoy, for lying to Voldemort’s face that I was dead, which allowed me to return to Hogwarts on that last, horrifying morning,” Harry continues, ignoring the upheaval of noise as the crowd breaks his Silencing charm. Draco is unable to withhold a gasp, as well, but fortunately, the sound is swallowed by the din of those around him. Harry waits until it has died down some before he continues, voice tight.

“There are so many others I could name—those who fought directly, or participated in the winning side of the war in other ways; and I will, at another time. They deserve to be remembered and spoken of often, and with much more honor and respect than people speak of me. Witches and wizards who gave their lives to the cause,” he chokes out. “Those that were wounded or have just had to live with what they’ve seen…

“I’m here today because I wanted to dispel the rumors,” Harry says. He bites his lip. “After much investigation, the Ministry has concluded that the spells rebounding through the castle after the Battle of Hogwarts misplaced me and wiped my identity clean.”

This is a direct lie, Draco knows, unlike Harry’s more gentle tailoring’s of the truth in the beginning of his statement, but he understands the need for it anyway. To admit to the public that somewhere, some part of him had wanted to run away would be worse than if he had never disappeared at all.

“Fortunately, the magic inside of Hogwarts has been stabilized. Children are safe there, which is all I could ask, because for most of my formative years, I considered it my home.” He shifts, slightly, looking a little queasy. “I can take some questions, now.”

The mob begins clamoring for his attention, and Harry points to someone in the crowd as everyone else falls to listen.

“Mr. Potter—“

“Please, Harry,” he says affably, and it’s as close to magic as nonmagic can be, the way the hordes thaw at this.

The witch smiles. “What do you say about interviews given by the concierge who released the fact of your return?”

Harry’s jaw flexes. “I’d say that people will say a lot of things for money and fame, and I don’t expect people like him to feel shame for spreading lies, but I hope one day he grows a conscience.”

A wizard next to Draco is waving his arms in the air, and Harry’s points to him, eyes resting on Draco’s stolen face for a moment with a little smile.

“So, it’s untrue that Draco Malfoy was duplicitous in your disappearance? From all statements given, you two had a very difficult relationship in school.”

“It’s completely untrue.” Harry pauses, then laughs. “Well, the first part. We had a horrible relationship in school. He was a quite a pretentious prat, then.”

A wave of laughter breaks out, and Draco glares up at Harry to find him smiling that same fond smile he’s seen so many times after waking up in his arms. The sting of the insult fades; it’s true, after all.

“And now?” the same wizard ventures.

“Now he’s still pretentious, but less of a prat,” Harry says cheerfully. “Oh, you mean our relationship? We’re friends now. He’s done a lot for me in recent months, and from everything I gather, has spent the last several years attempting to make up for his part in the War.”

Harry points to someone else.

“What is the status of your relationship with Ginny Weasley?” “Ginny and I will always be friends. She’s happily engaged and I’ve moved on from our romantic relationship, as well.”

A wizard, jumping up and down a few rows in front of Draco, gets called on next. “How did you live, in California?”

“As a Muggle. As I said,” Harry explains, “I had no memory of my first seventeen years. Malfoy was there on business, and recognized me. He’s the one who convinced me of my background, identity, and history.”

“Are you dating someone in particular?” someone calls out.

“No, not at this time,” Harry says calmly, although his eyes rest on Draco again for a moment.

Draco listens to several more questions—expected ones such as what Harry did for a living, what his future plans are, and where he stayed during his recovery, as well as others of a more personal nature (the sex dungeon is mentioned three times)—which Harry answers easily (dishonestly, perhaps, at times, though no one will ever suspect it because of that earnest thing he can do with his face) or not at all, depending, before Draco has to untangle himself from the crush of people, as time is beginning to run short.

On the outer fringe of the crowd, he looks back to find Harry staring at him intently, as if not even aware that he’s talking about his opinion on the Ministry reform in his absence.

Draco gives a dip of a nod which Harry, barely, returns.

***

For the next several weeks, Draco is surrounded by lawyers, Ministry officials, and reporters, all investigating or fact-checking Harry’s bombshell about Narcissa Malfoy. He spends a large portion of his time at Azkaban, visiting her, and at the Ministry, working to get her a new trial. It makes it easy for him not to return to his flat, now that he’s allowed to.

On his first night back, he’d walked from room to room, completely pissed on elf-wine, searching for any remnants of Harry. Whichever person had come to fetch his things had seemed to scour Draco’s space of Harry’s presence: Morty and her cage were missing, Harry’s books and clothes were gone, even Draco’s wreck of a bed had been made up. He’d laid down and pressed his face to Harry’s pillow, imagining he could smell him there.

He’d woken up feeling pathetic.

By the time his mother is granted a new trial—even Shacklebolt can’t force it, and there are many in the Ministry who feel that both adult Malfoy’s should simply pay and pay and pay, despite what Harry Potter has to say about it—the first snow has fallen.

The trial itself is relatively simple; it’s a basic rehashing of her first, which recount her misdeeds in allowing Voldemort’s presence in her home and aiding Death Eaters and Snatchers in their quest to hold witches, wizards, and goblins hostage. However, this time there is Harry, who comes in on the final day as a witness to testify to her actions in the Forbidden Forest, eyeing some of the more spiteful members of the Wizengamot in a hard, disdainful way that promises retribution if they do not release her.

They do.

Just like that, she’s free on time served, with two years of probation added to her sentence to satisfy her ill-wishers. Draco takes her home; she is frail, despite the luxuries he’d managed to procure for her in the last few years, but she maintains the effortless grace he’s always so admired in her.

She stays with him through Christmas and the New Year, alleviating some of his solitude, before delicately broaching how much more comfortable she would be on the Continent, away from the public eye, which still attempts to get at Draco even though his wards have been restored. 

He takes her there immediately, finding her a posh apartment in the wizarding section of Paris, near the Left Bank. Its bustle and artistry seem to charm her, and he sees her truly relax for the first time since the War.  He opens an array of vaults and Muggle accounts for her use, stays for a week as she gets settled, and returns home.

There are two letters waiting for him.

 ** _Do not believe everything you read in the papers, please_** , says the first. The other says, _ **I still remember. I promise**_.

Throat tight, as he hasn’t seen or heard from Harry since Narcissa’s trial—and then, it was for a little more than an hour, as he’d testified, leaving straight after—Draco rereads the notes several times. He asks Spark to bring in the two previous days of papers, and when he receives them, he stares down at them in shock.

 ** _CHOSEN ONE CHOOSES MEN_**! There is a picture underneath of Harry, clearly on a date with another man. They are eating at an exclusive restaurant in Diagon Alley, and Harry leans over to stroke the man’s hand with a light touch before the picture loops.

 _ **WHAT DID HIS AMENISIA DO TO HIM?**_ There is a picture of Harry kissing the same man on the corner of his mouth, shyly. The man says something in his ear, and Harry throws his head back on a laugh.

 _ **GINNY WEASLEY SAYS POTTER “CAN BE GAY IF HE WANTS TO!”**_ Underneath is two pictures; one depicts an obviously furious Ginevra trying to avoid reporters; the other shows Harry walking out of an unfamiliar house, early in the morning.

Bile rises in Draco’s throat and he Summons a basin just in time, sicking up into it.

He takes several deep breaths to regain his equilibrium, Vanishes the mess, and then spends the next several hours drinking himself stupid. 

When he wakes up, his head is throbbing and his nausea is back, but he looks at Harry’s letters several times and finally writes one of his own. He ruins his best quill in the process by having to rewrite it several times, as he keeps digging the nib too hard into the parchment.

_**Hermione,** _

_**I would very much like to thank Harry in person for his part in the release of my mother. Would you be so kind as to enquire as to when he might be free to meet with me? I would also enjoy being able to see you and your family if you are available, and hope everyone is well.** _

_**D. Malfoy** _

The owl that returns is a stubborn one and nips at Draco’s fingers as he tries to open the letter until he retrieves some treats for her. She gives him an irritated look and flies off without waiting for a reply.

The letter is short, and, as he has become used to, unsigned.

 ** _Give me three weeks. 8:00 am._** It lists the name of a coffee bistro located across from the offices of The Prophet.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco sits with a bland expression, trying not to twitch in his seat from his third espresso. He’s been waiting since half-seven, and has started to attract notice from the barista, who keeps shooting him odd looks. He taps his menu choice with his wand—a raspberry lemon-sherbet scone, this time, along with a hot chocolate—and watches as she reacts to his order coming in. She huffs a sigh to herself, prepares it, and levitates it over to his table.

It’s nearly there when the charm fails, and the plates and cup come crashing down with a clatter, shattering on the floor and splashing his trousers with hot liquid. Draco pulls his wand to clean himself up, and hears a quiet “ _Reparo_ ,” come from beside him. He looks up.

Harry stands there, a small smile curling around the edges of his mouth. He points his wand again and Vanishes the chocolate on Draco’s trousers, and levitates the repaired china back to the counter, where the barista is still staring, chalky-white, her mouth a little rounded ‘o’ of shock. Draco stands.

Harry holds out his hand and he grasps it, quickly, cleanly, ignoring the skitter of tingles that rush up his arm to his elbow.

They sit.

“Always need to make an entrance, don’t you, Potter?”

Harry’s lips quirk. “That wasn’t my doing,” he defends lightly.

“It’s _always_ your doing, or haven’t you figured that out by now?” Draco says, rolling his eyes. They grin at each other for a moment, and then he looks around. “Well. This was a very public pick of spot.”

“I’m not the one who chose a table by the window.”

Draco snorts. “No, just an establishment across from your biggest stalkers.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to be tempted into doing something I shouldn’t do, yet,” Harry says, voice too low for anyone to overhear.

Draco’s heart thuds. A twinge of hurt uncurls in his belly. “Now that you’re single again?”

The last week of papers Draco had been forced to confront (or, more accurately, devoured with a sixth-year, Potter-like obsession) had blown up with the news of Harry’s failed homosexual romance. Apparently, the gentleman in question had trouble coping with the fame, but claimed that he and Harry “remained on good terms.”

Harry’s gaze narrows. “I haven’t been single for a long time now, Malfoy, despite what you read.”

Confusion wraps around the hurt of it. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says carefully. “You’re still together?”

Harry makes a small noise like a growl, and his eyes get even darker. He opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the barista, who has apparently screwed up enough courage to approach the table.

She speaks to Draco, her eyes on Harry the whole time. “I’m so sorry about that, Sir. Your bill will be on the house, of course, and I’ll replace your last order.”

“Thank you,” Draco says. He looks at Harry grudgingly. “Do you want something?”

“ _Completely_ on the house,” she assures him, staring at him avidly. Draco just hopes she can refrain from removing her clothing and ducking under the table.

Harry looks amused. “I’ll have another of whatever he’s having, thank you,” he says, gently.

She lingers for a minute until it gets too obvious for her to ignore that they want to talk alone, and then heads back to the counter quickly. She works her wand, levitates Draco’s order back to them, and hand delivers Harry’s.

“That will be _all_ ,” Draco snaps.  She gives him a surprised look, as though she hadn’t realized he was still there, and Harry another lingering hopeful one. When he doesn’t respond, she walks back to the counter with all of the speed of a Flobberworm.

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to learn how to be nicer to them.”

Draco begins the process of mutilating his scone, breaking it off into small pieces on his plate. “I am always nice. These days. Unless someone annoys me very much.”

Harry chuckles and takes a bite of his scone, leaving a crumb lingering on the corner of his mouth that Draco itches to brush off. “A lot of people are going to do that.”

“They do seem to,” Draco agrees. He tries to remain aloof in the presence of Harry’s warmth, which feels as though it’s seeping into his bones.

“No, I mean… From now on.” For the first time, Harry looks uncomfortable. “If we’re going to be… friends.”

Draco abandons his scone-maiming. He clears his throat.

“We _are_ friends, Harry. No matter what else you’ve got going,” he says haltingly. “I understand that things change; I wish you’d told me, but…”

Harry leans forward. “I did tell you, you git. What did I say before I left?”

Draco stalls. “I—But you just said, about that Italian bloke…”

“I didn’t. You assumed. Wrongly.”

“Then why?” Draco asks, unable to school his expression into something less first-year-with-a-crush hopeful. Harry leans back in his chair and takes a casual sip of his chocolate. He tilts his head slightly toward the window and flicks his eyes in that direction. Bewildered, Draco looks over. There are about forty cameras pointed at them. He looks back at Harry, who shrugs.

“There are a lot of things I wish I could have done differently,” he says carefully. His expression is calm, but his eyes seem to be trying to say something. “It’s been impossible to move back into my life without constant scrutiny. By constant, I mean owls intercepted, even through Ministry channels. I mean walking around during the day. I mean dating. It’s a good thing Roberto was such a decent man, you know? There was nothing about him other than the fact of his gender that would cause the public to… panic. I was very fortunate to meet him. He’s very discrete, and was quite helpful with the newspapers.”

Draco struggles to read between the lines. Obviously, Harry is being followed to the point of ridiculousness—they knew that would happen. The lack of privacy is fairly indecent, but that was expected as well. Draco thinks the word ‘panic’ is significant somehow, but can’t quite connect the dots.

“Of course,” Harry continues, “because of who he is—or isn’t—it was relatively safe for him to date me, particularly since the masses didn’t know about my leanings yet. Very innocuous. Even bland, some papers said.” Harry smiles that tiny smile again, and takes another sip.

Draco mimics his posture, leaning back in his chair casually, as all he wants to do is climb over it and shove himself in Harry’s lap.

“I see,” he says instead. “Because others might be… suspected of other motives or means, were they to date you?”

“Well,” Harry says practically, beaming at him for figuring it out, “Possibly for a while. Because of how I was found, you know. Memory stuff. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t, eventually.”

“And in the meantime, there can be coffee?” Draco says, testing the waters.

“Yes,” Harry says happily. “And Ron’s birthday is in a few weeks. They agreed to allow a reporter on-site, you know, the whole me-and-them thing. But he did ask me to invite you. If you’re okay with being around the press.”

“I am _okay_ being around the press,” Draco rushes to say. Fuck aloof. Desperate is close enough.

“It’s going to be this way for a while,” Harry warns.

Draco hesitates. “How long a while?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. No.”

“For me, either. Too,” Harry says softly. His eyes are burning again.

The flashing of a camera cracks the moment in two. Harry surreptitiously adjusts himself under the table, and Draco uses all of his considerable effort not to imagine what’s going on under there.

***

They meet again three days later, for coffee, and then two nights after, for drinks at the Leaky. Harry wasn’t lying about the media attention; Draco’s name is now splashed all over the papers and even the wireless in a way it’s never been, even after the War or when he was being touted as a malevolent sex dominant. Apparently, simply being friends with the Savior—particularly when one has such an involved history with them—is enough to start the rumors flying.

Which they do.

Fortunately, Harry is smart enough to spend equal time being photographed with Luna, with Longbottom and Ginevra, with Ron and Hermione, with Cho Chang (new rumors begin, and Draco can swear she’s interested in making them a reality; he’s never liked her, anyway) and George Weasley. He sees them sometimes singly and sometimes in groups, and the papers can’t substantiate anything.

Draco attends Ron’s birthday party, gifting him a Deluxe set of Daydream Charms that he’d commissioned through George, personally attuned to his experiences and social circle for the inter-office meetings that Ron complains about. The high point of the evening comes when Molly volunteers Draco and Harry to help pass out the cake, and for several minutes, whenever he hands Harry a plate, Harry’s forefinger brushes over his thumb, slowly and deliberately.

Harry introduces him to Muggle movies, which are confusing and not a small bit frightening—the people are unnervingly giant, and Draco is not convinced they aren’t somehow watching him back through the screen—but interesting nonetheless. They have dinners and group lunches and meet for walks in the park as the weather thaws, constantly followed by the snap snap snap of photographs.

And it never matters, because always, there is Harry, finding a casual way to touch him or lean close to him, or turn away from the cameras and _look_ at him, and that makes it all worth it. It gets to the point where a casual, guiding hand on his lower back, or a leaf pulled from his hair after flying or that certain crinkle at the corner of Harry’s eyes when he smiles, makes Draco achingly hard in the time that it takes to blink.

One night, Draco heads to a Muggle Korean restaurant to meet the group, and finds Harry waiting for him at a table for two. Harry quirks his lips, and pushes out the chair opposite him with his foot. Draco sits, unwinding his scarf.

“Where are Hermione and Ron?”

“Rose has a cold, they decided to stay home.”

“Ginevra and Longbottom?” Harry shrugs. “Gin doesn’t like Korean food.”

“Luna?”

“Some ordering emergency at her shop,” Harry explains.

“So, basically, you didn’t invite any of them.”

Harry grins. “I didn’t invite any of them. Didn’t want them here.”

“Well,” Draco says casually, heart in his throat, “that’s awfully snobbish of you, isn’t it?”

“You’re a bad influence, maybe?” Harry suggests, eyes twinkling. "You’ve gotten me to do all sorts of bad things. If you believe the papers, of course."

“I’ll have you know that I rarely bathe in the blood of virgins anymore, and that my sex dungeon has closed up shop,” Draco says haughtily. “Besides, my name is only mentioned about four-hundred times per issue, lately.”

“Pity, that.”

“I agree.” Draco raises his eyebrows. “I’m much more attractive than those who are more frequently written about.”

“I don’t know, Ginny is pretty gorgeous,” Harry says. “All that red hair. Long legs, too. I meant the sex dungeon part.”

“I can’t even justify that comment with a response; redheads are notoriously difficult to get along with.” He pauses, diverted, and then opens his menu to study it. “You pity my sex dungeon? Please don’t, all of its guests have left quite satisfied, I can assure you.”

“Because all of the blonds I know are so relaxed and low-maintenance?” Harry takes a sip of his water, eyeing Draco over the rim of his glass. “I have no doubt. You’re not the type of person to leave your slaves unfulfilled. Too meticulous for that.”

Draco snaps his menu closed and stares at him. “What are you doing, Potter?”

“Hypothesizing.”

“About?”

“How you would look wearing nothing but dragonhide trousers, I guess,” he snickers.

“I look fantastic in everything,” Draco says severely. “And out of it, as well.”

“Oh, I remember,” Harry says in a low voice.

Frustrated, Draco looks around. He recognizes a wizard sitting a few tables away, watching them. Fortunately, given the area, he hasn’t pulled his camera. There are probably a few more that he doesn’t see.

“What happened to discretion?” Draco hisses.

“Fuck it,” Harry says succinctly.

Draco peers at him. “Are you drunk?”

“You haven’t been inside me for nearly eight months. Not drunk, just delirious.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry. “So…”

“Let’s go.”

“Are you s—” He’s interrupted by Harry standing and, with one fluid motion, yanking Draco out of his chair and dropping a burning kiss onto his mouth. He latches a hand onto Draco’s elbow, hustles him out of the restaurant and into the alley beside it, and Disapparates them.

Draco is still shaking with surprise and the wild shocks of lust running through his system when he finds himself on the stoop in front of number 12, Grimmauld Place. Harry grabs him and maneuvers him inside, shoving the door closed with his foot, and the world whirls around Draco as Harry drops to his knees in the entry way, undoing his flies. He pulls his cock out—still soft; Draco can barely believe this is happening—and sucks it in to his mouth in one swift motion.

Draco gasps, one hand falling to the top of Harry’s head, the other bracing himself on the wall so as to not collapse. He hardens rapidly and painfully under Harry’s suction, that skillful tongue sweeping over the head and lapping at the underside of the crown. Harry tongues Draco’s foreskin back and sucks him deeper, hands coming up and around to cup Draco’s arse through his trousers, mouth clinging and slick.

Draco pumps his hips into the sensation and Harry groans, the vibration spiking up the length of Draco’s shaft. He releases his grip on Draco’s arse and wrangles his trousers and pants down around his knees, then pulls his mouth away with a wet slurping sound.

Draco stares at him, eyes wide, as Harry stands and grins at him wickedly.

“We’re not even going to talk first?” Draco squeaks out.

“Do you want to?” Harry’s hand finds his cock, still slick from his saliva. His eyes are dark and knowing.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

Harry’s eyes flare; he kisses Draco hungrily, with no finesse, all tongues and lips and teeth, breathtaking in his need. Draco follows him, stumbling twice over the awkward positioning of his trousers, as Harry drags him to the closest room with furniture, which turns out to be an ugly parlor of some sort. But there’s a couch there, covered with faded velvet, and Harry pulls back with a gasp to give his fingers a smart little snap.

Their clothes Vanish to who knows where.

Draco wants to be impressed; he wants to be angry. These past several months have been the hardest and most terrifying of his life in many ways, which is not a small sentiment for someone who once hosted the Dark Lord in his home for nearly two years. He wants to object that he deserves some answers, wants to snipe that Harry’s recklessness after so much caution is entirely too Gryffindor-ish for him to allow, wants to hex him to teach him a lesson in how not to abandon your lover and then expect them to fuck you senseless as soon as they want you to.

But Harry is looking at him, eyes vulnerable beneath their smolder. His body is beautiful, paler now but somehow still golden, stomach flat and hips narrow, thighs muscular. His cock is swollen and heavy and red, leaking at the tip.

So Draco lurches closer and kisses him again, sighing with what feels like heartbreak as Harry’s mouth against his heals all of the wounds those long months of silence had left. Harry makes a noise that sounds like a sob and licks into Draco’s mouth, nibbling at his lips, pulling away to duck his head into the bend of Draco’s throat to bite down and suck hard, scraping his teeth over his jugular. Draco hears himself keen, his head snapping back to allow better access, and feels Harry press closer, trapping their cocks together, and rubbing his hips in sinuous little circles.

“I need you,” Harry breathes into his ear.. “I need you so much. I’m already ready. Please, Draco.”

Draco pulls away and spins Harry so that his back is against Draco’s chest. He presses a hand between Harry’s shoulder blades and Harry cooperates by sinking back down and draping his chest over the deep seat of the sofa. He inches his knees out and Draco lowers down, hands spreading his arse cheeks wide and his brain shorts out.

Harry’s arse is slick and shiny with lubricant, the hole already loosened, and Draco can hardly comprehend it; Harry sitting in that little Korean restaurant as though he hadn’t worked himself open before coming, hoping this was going to happen.

“Please,” Harry pants. He reaches backward to hold himself open, and ruts a little against the front of the cushions.

Draco’s mouth quirks, but he lines up his cock obligingly, rubbing the head of it in smooth little strokes over Harry’s entrance, which contracts at the sensation. “Will you call me Master?” he asks breathlessly. “I think I’d enjoy you calling me Master…”

“I won’t be able to call you anything if you don’t start fucking me soon, Malfoy, because I’ll fucking kill you,” Harry growls, voice muffled.

Draco gives a catching laugh, as Harry thrusts his arse backwards just as Draco has halted his teasing and has pressed the head of his cock to Harry’s hole with intent. His cock sinks in passed the ring of muscles, which twitch around him, and then deeper, sliding in easily with one long, fast push. It’s too fast, he knows, as evidenced by Harry’s gasp and sudden tension, but he can’t bring himself to care. Apparently neither does Harry, because he simply nods against the cushion. The back of his neck looks pale and vulnerable under all of his black hair, and Draco rests his hand over it as he allows Harry to become accustomed to the feel of being filled again.

After a minute, the tightness in Harry’s shoulder’s fade, and he rocks his hips backwards. Draco pulls out a little, then arches forward hard. Harry yelps, but it sounds good, sounds like sex and satisfaction and lust, and so Draco does it again, watching as his shaft pulls near-completely out of Harry’s tight clasp and then disappears in a quick, hard stroke.

Harry is making stifled grunts as Draco rocks into him. His lower back scoops down and his hips canting upward, seeking a better angle, and Draco knows when he’s found it because Harry tosses his head back, reckless and wild. He reaches out one hand to grip the back of the couch and steady himself in place against Draco’s thrusts, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip.

Draco makes a mindless sound and sets up a slow tempo, pitching back and forth, Harry’s tight channel constricting and releasing around his prick, smooth and furnace-hot. He threads a hand through Harry’s hair, tugging his head further back in a punishing grip, and Harry whines, low in his throat.

Draco increases his speed, knowing he’s too close anyway to make this last as long as he’d like, and as he shoves his hips to get deeper, Harry is thrusting backwards, working his arse against Draco. The muscles on his back glisten with sweat.

“I’m not going to last,” he warns Harry in an unrecognizable voice.

“No, no, just fuck me, so close, oh god, your cock,” Harry babbles, voice constricted and needy.

Draco feels his balls tighten and he loses his rhythm, grinding in hard and reaching around Harry to grab his cock, which has been rubbing against the sofa and is dribbling copiously. He strokes a tight fist around it, down, once, and that’s all it takes.

Harry bucks back, taking Draco’s cock to the hilt, and comes, shooting over Draco’s hand in thick, warm spurts. His walls tighten unbearably around Draco’s painful erection, milking him sweetly, and Draco loses control as well, feeling the gush of his release into Harry, flooding him, as his cock throbs with pleasure so intense it hurts.

***

Harry rests heavily on him, and Draco nudges him to roll off so he can breathe.

In the last twelve hours, there has been an exorbitant amount of fucking, a little bit of sleep, and almost zero talking that didn’t involve the word “cock,” or “fuck” or “harder,” with the exception of one interesting round that had included words like, “please, Sir.”

Harry pulls his cock from Draco’s arse slowly, a smooth stinging slide as he disengages, and lays on his side, nuzzling Draco’s jaw and ear with a gentle nip and lick. His grabs a sheet to ensure they’re both covered and mumbles “Kreacher.”

“Exactly what I like hearing after sex,” Draco grumbles sarcastically as Harry’s house-elf appears with a crack.

“Yes, Master?” the elf croaks. He seems to have absolutely no thoughts whatsoever to their state of undress or their position on Harry’s bed, although he does give Draco an almost threatening glare before his ancient, drooping face softens as he looks at Harry.

“Would it be too much trouble to bring up something to eat and drink? We’re starving. Anything we have. I would appreciate it.”

“Of course; Kreacher has made some roasted chicken and potatoes for you.  Kreacher has only been waiting for Master to be unoccupied enough to eat it. It is unhealthy for Master to go without eating,” he says dourly.

“Bring some for Draco, too,” Harry says, as though he knows the elf wouldn’t, otherwise. “Please.”

Kreacher disappears, glowering, and Draco sits up, propping himself against the fluffy white pillows. Harry’s bed seems to be the only thing in the whole house in good repair; the curtains are dusty and thick with doxies, the furniture faded and half of it broken. He remembers the shower, leaking brown water before Harry had pointed his wand at it, and grimaces.

Kreacher is back in no time, serving enough food for a party of ten on two silver platters that hover idly in the air. Everything is hot and steaming with delicious smells, and Draco’s stomach rumbles as Harry grabs plates and begins serving them from the massive selection. He hands one, piled high with food, to Draco, and Draco doesn’t wait until Harry is done loading his own plate before tucking in greedily.

After hours (and hours and hours) of fucking, food brings with it the same completion and satisfaction that sex does, and Draco moans around a mouthful of chicken, salted with bits of bacon and moist on his tongue. Harry slants an amused look at him and dives into his own.

“Your elf doesn’t like me,” Draco comments when half his food is gone.

“He doesn’t like most people. At least you’re a pureblood. He’ll like that about you.” Harry tilts his head to the side. “And a Black, actually. He probably knows your mum, knows who you are, even. He’ll lighten up, eventually. He’s been feeling a bit protective of me, lately.”

Harry crooks a finger at the wine on the floating platters, and they levitate over to him. He hands one to Draco and takes a long swallow of his own. Draco takes a careful sip, raising his eyebrows at the rich, fruity flavor, almost like elf-wine.

“This is delicious.”

“Kreacher makes it.”

Nonplussed, Draco looks at it. “I’m fairly certain that’s illegal. Elf-wine is strongly regulated, which is why it’s so expensive.”

“Spark could probably make it, too,” Harry offers, guilelessly.

“As I said, illegal.”

Harry’s eyes twinkle. “I don’t think I’m going to get arrested for drinking unregulated elf-wine. And I don’t think you’re in danger of getting arrested for nearly anything, now.”

Draco sighs, setting the wine aside. “And this was a worry for a while, I gather?”

Harry bites his lip, looking at him sheepishly. “Time to talk about it? I was sort of hoping we could skip that part.”

“Well, we have to do something to pass the next few hours. I’m fairly certain my cock isn’t going to respond to anything for a while.”

“You’re usually wrong about that,” Harry says, smiling.

“Harry.”

“Fine. Yes. You were in serious danger of being arrested for a while,” he admits. “You were under surveillance by certain members of the Ministry; your Floo, your owls, all of your businesses—they were able to overrule Kingsley based on the way you bypassed Customs to get me here. Technically, it’s considered kidnapping, even when the victim happens to be me, who became a willing participant the second you levitated your sofa.”

“And that’s why you went so long without contacting me?” Draco asks in confusion.

“I’ve spent _months_ undergoing tests at the Department of Mysteries. It was over six weeks before they even let me make more permanent arrangements for my shop in California.  Fortunately, they assigned Rudy to me, and Kingsley was able to convince him not to reveal… the nature of our relationship.” Harry’s tone has become grim. “You were under suspicion for a lot of things.” 

Draco stares at him, ears buzzing. “Such as?”

“Everyone knows you’re a Legilimens. And that you know Occlumency. Both have significant ties to memory,” Harry says pointedly. “If it had been discovered that we were sleeping together, in love, what exactly do you think would have happened?”

“All right,” Draco acknowledges slowly, “maybe I would have been under suspicion for—Salazar, I’m not even sure what, exactly. Toying with your memories so that you’d bottom?—but you are who you are… What you did for my mother…”

“Yeah, because it only took me an hour to have her out,” Harry says dryly. “It’s _because_ I am who I am that they wouldn’t necessarily do what I say or ask; a few of the people with power don’t seem to like how much I have now, especially since I’ve been gone for five years. And I top, too.”

Draco smirks, but the expression fades quickly. “You were able to get me messages through Hermione,” he says, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Harry hears it anyway. His eyes are sad behind his glasses. “After a few _weeks_. Weeks, Draco. Weeks before I was able to get _one_ note to you that I was relatively certain couldn’t get you into trouble. Reporters weren’t even the worst of it; people at the Ministry were filtering through any memories that Rudy filed. Do you think I didn’t _love_ you? That I didn’t want to see you _every fucking day_?”

Draco looks up, eyes flashing. “Do you think I would be here if that’s what I thought? Merlin, Potter. I just…” Words fail him slightly, here. “I just… missed you.”

Harry’s face relaxes. He leans in and kisses Draco slowly; he tastes of wine as he plunders Draco’s mouth with a delicacy that leaves him feeling rattled.

“I missed you, too.”

“Why couldn’t they have given me Veritaserum?” Draco asks, pulling away. “Just to assure them that I hadn’t been keeping you, hadn’t kidnapped you.”

“That was Kingsley,” Harry says with a sigh, looking at Draco’s mouth as if he wants to kiss it again. “He was afraid they would ask you how personal it had become between us.”

“Which is why… Your boyfriend?” Draco tries to keep the sneer out of the word.

Harry’s eyes crinkle at his smile. “He was perfect, wasn’t he? Hermione found him for me. With all of the suspicion on you, you’d have been arrested straightaway if I’d started to publicly date you so soon after returning. Snape said to wait a full year, but I was never good at listening to him, anyway.”

“What? When did you talk to… Oh. Hogwarts?”

Harry nods. “Not all of it came back until after I’d talked to Dumbledore. Snape was listening, and I took the opportunity to thank him for his service; I’d never gotten to, before I disappeared.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, he was a bit of a prick about it, actually,” Harry says with a shrug. “But I’m used to that, from him. Still, he did save my life more often than I’d thought…”

“No, I mean, about me,” Draco clarifies.

“Oh.” Harry gives a soft laugh. “He had noticed the way we were with each other in McGonagall’s office and asked if I planned to… I think… ‘pull you down with me, with the entitled, bratty behavior he’d come to expect from me’ when I went public? I was going to brush it off, but Dumbledore pointed out the ramifications of being seen with you, before anyone else.”

“Great,” Draco grumbles. “Why am I not surprised that you took the advice of two dead men to not have sex with me for over a half a year?”

“It was the right thing to do, Draco,” Harry says seriously.

“Next time, do the wrong thing,” Draco snaps.

“There won’t be a next time.” Harry’s voice is soft. “It’s been long enough. I’ve been in my life, but I haven’t been able to live my life yet, and I want to—with you.”

“Fine,” Draco says loftily, refusing to acknowledge the way his heart thunders at what Harry is saying. “But I’m not going to be coming back here with you until you redecorate. This place is awful.”

“I’ll even let you do it,” Harry offers.

“Of course, you’ll let me do it,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “You have terrible taste. You always have. You’re twenty-three and haven’t figured out how to brush your hair properly.”

Harry laughs. “God, I really did miss you,” he breathes, eyes bright and so fucking earnest that Draco wants to slide under the covers and suck him off with that look on his face.

“What I want to know is what I get out of it,” Draco says at last.

Harry pauses. “I’ll pay for it.”

“It’s your ruddy house, were you expecting me to pay?”

“I’ll bottom,” Harry offers.

“Oh, please, you beg for it already,” Draco snips. “I might as well open up that sex dungeon.”

“I give a mean blowjob?”

“Mmmm,” Draco says noncommittally, though his prick twitches with exhausted interest. “More. I’m a very busy man, you know. I have lots of things to do with my time.”

“You can live with me in it,” Harry says, voice low. “When you’re done. Or before. As long as you’re with me. Whatever you want, you can have it.”

Draco looks at him, startled. The house is as dour as the elf tied to it; its rooms are dark and musty, and most of them smell decidedly like mildew. Besides which, they’ve barely gotten back together, if one could call it that—although he does take into account Harry’s protestation from months prior that they’ve never been technically apart. Harry is also a bit of a slob, whereas Draco prefers things to be in order.

But he does know how to cook breakfast.

“Okay,” Draco says quietly, the word tripping off his tongue. “Yes, that’s enough.”

***

They laze in bed for near two days, during which time Kreacher brings them sustenance and fluids lest they fuck themselves into dangerous levels of dehydration. In between, they laugh and kiss and make plans and argue (which usually leads to more sex).

It’s a deeper intimacy than Draco could have expected, particularly from Harry Potter, who seems so open to the whole world but, in reality, is quite guarded. As they lay tangled together, Harry whispers about his childhood and how he still doesn’t want to return to the Dursley’s; apparently his cousin is the only one that expressed any interest when he went missing. Draco responds by describing how relieved he was when they had to release the Manor for reparations, because by the end of the war he was having panic attacks every day, and he how admits to how he had them for years after.

Harry talks about what happened in the Forbidden Forest, and how Snape had revealed it was necessary for him to die to be able to kill Voldemort. He is vague on the details as to the reason in a way that makes Draco sure there is more to the story, but promises to explain fully, later, so Draco doesn’t press. He instead talks about how surprised Draco was at Granger's--a Muggleborn's--success in school; how he constantly competed with her in classes, though she was so clever she surpassed everyone and never even noticed that others might be attempting to best her.

Their words at night are hushed and intense and often as raw as Draco feels from the inside out. Then one of them will lick their way down the other’s body, or ply the other open with nimble fingers, or kiss the other until their faces are both red from stubble and they are each completely breathless.

Kreacher also brings news from the outside world.

The papers are kinder to Draco this time around. Mostly.

_**BOY HERO DISAPPEARS AGAIN, THIS TIME WITH FORMER DEATH EATER: DETAILS INSIDE!** _

Above the fold, there is a picture of Harry snogging him in the middle of the Muggle restaurant, and another of him pulling Draco inside his house, taken from the across the street. Hermione grants an interview in which she figures out a way to seem quite surprised at the rudeness of the questions while simultaneously taking credit for Harry and Draco getting together.

**_The lovely Ms. Granger-Weasley, renowned for her work in Curse Damage at St. Mungo’s, appears delighted by the pairing. “Why wouldn’t I want them together?” she says, when asked. “Draco saved Harry’s life in almost every way possible; he brought him back to all of us. Harry was a little surprised when I brought up the idea of dating him—he thought Draco might not be interested; he’s rather shy that way, you know—but finally agreed to give it a go. We’re all quite happy for them.”_ **

Draco snorts and Harry comes up behind him, sliding his arms around his waist and resting his head on his shoulder. “What?”

“Do you think she’s going to take credit for my business acumen next?” Draco asks dryly. “And why do they have to mention the Death Eater thing in every paper? You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth, Potter; before you came back, they wrote some very complimentary things about me.”

“Let her,” Harry mumbles, kissing the side of his neck. “Let her do anything that helps to pave the way for us. You just don’t like being indebted to anyone. And I am worth exactly the amount of trouble I bring you; I compensate for those unflattering mentions in much more valuable ways,” he says, rubbing against the curve of Draco’s arse.

Draco sneers at that, but Harry’s thickening erection is pressing into the back of his pants in a method worthy of further investigation, so he abandons the topic for a while.

On the third day of their self-imposed exile, they finally get dressed. Draco is nervous to leave, of course he is, and he looks over at Harry with irritation; Harry seems implacable and steady, simply ready for the day and whatever it brings and, even more annoying, seems to understand that Draco is not.

“Are you okay?” he asks with a lopsided smile as they eat breakfast. He’s wearing his newer glasses today, thank Merlin. The old style is hideous, which makes Draco a tad ashamed of how hot he gets when Harry puts them on.

“I’m fine,” Draco says tightly.

“You’re smooshing your eggs and not eating any of them.”

Draco looks down. His eggs have been smashed to a pulp by his fork.

“Are you nervous about the reporters? About stepping out of here together?” Harry asks gently.

“Potter, if you insist on being this stupid, the reporters are the least of my worries.”

Harry smiles, just a touch, at that. It settles Draco’s nerves.

“What is it, then?”

Draco forsakes his eggs, which look completely unappetizing on his plate now. He sighs. “We never would have had this, if you hadn’t gotten lost.”

Harry’s brows knit together; his scar becomes a shapeless blur. “But we do have this. I did get lost.” He leans forward. “You found me.”

“I mean…” Draco swallows hard. “You never would have considered me, and I know you would have been the last person on earth I would have ever, in a million years—”

“Hey!”

“Well, doesn’t it bother you?”

“No,” Harry says softly. “Because even if that’s true—and there’s no way of knowing that it is—loving you is the one really good thing I can think of coming out of this whole, convoluted mess I made. And the fact that you love me, too…” Harry takes his hand. “You changed the entire way I see the world; you reshaped it and made it new for me. And I don’t care that I might have been too stupid and you might have been too arrogant at seventeen to realize we were capable of being what we can be together.”

Draco’s heart sticks in his throat and it takes several attempts to swallow it down.

The problem with Harry is that he can _do_ that earnest thing because he’s just so fucking _sincere_ about everything. He even manages to make Draco’s cynicism seem unfounded.

It’s a good balance, he supposes. He might even be able to reign in some of Harry’s more reckless qualities. Maybe. Someday.

Draco squeezes his hand. “Are you ready to go?”

Harry smiles again. They stand and head to the door. When they get outside, Harry leans over and kisses him slowly on the mouth, and Draco barely notices the flash of the cameras or the wild yell of the reporters. He kisses Harry back, loving him and letting himself be loved.

They begin to walk, and the world rolls out before them, spotless and bright, and filled with endless possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently participated in a fic fest, and the mystery author assigned to me picked this work to remix. I cannot say enough good things about it--it's a very small prequel that details a bit of Harry's (James's) life before the start of The Shape Of The World, and it's absolutely lovely; perfectly in line with everything I feel about this story, and beautifully written, besides. 
> 
> The author of it will be revealed in about a week, but he/she has given me permission to link to it here: [The Shape Of The World Is the Shape Of You In It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10918923)
> 
> Go read; you won't regret it. <3
> 
> Once again, thanks so much for reading this!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are lovely! Will be updating every day or two until all of it is up.


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